Songs in the key of life
by AmandaFriend
Summary: 40 Songs in 40 Days song challenge from Bonesology. Think of it as another way to get Booth and Brennan together in a post-Hannah world. Some angst, some humor, some romance and definitely, B&B. Not a typical song fiction. Complete.
1. Like a Rolling Stone

**Songs in the key of life**

**Part 1: Like a Rolling Stone: Bob Dylan**

_**Note:**__ This is part of the Bonesology's 40 Songs in 40 Days Challenge. For want of any other reason, I'm going to attempt the songs in order and because I like connections, these will form a story when all is said and done. _

_These stories will be set in the same season, post Hannah. So, there will be some angst, some humor and some romance. The endgame, my peeps, is for the stories Brennan and Booth romance to get on track. Yes. Like the other thousands of writers, I, too, will defy Bones-logic and put our hapless heroes together. _

_Again, the only bones I own are my own. Bones, the TV show, belongs to many others. _

The lights of Dulles International receded into the background and with one final glance at the rearview mirror; he bid his hopes for a life with Hannah goodbye.

Somehow the vehicle seemed larger and smaller at the same time with Hannah gone as well as the few bags and boxes that contained the bulk of her life. The closeness and emptiness of the SUV would be something he was sure his partner would tell him was impossible. "Completely irrational," she would say.

And she would be right.

But he knew she would be completely wrong about this.

Punching at the button for the radio to drown out the thoughts swirling in his head, a commercial cut through the gloom in the SUV for a moment. He pushed at the buttons, chasing away the silence with one snippet of a song after another until he found an oldies station. A song bounded within the confines of the truck, doing little to challenge his mood. But when the speakers betrayed his own melancholy with a sentimental love song, he turned off the radio and returned control to the sadness that seemed to be his only companion of late.

Like a rolling stone, Hannah had appeared in his life at a time when he had needed her. Without knowing it, she had nursed his wounded heart and made him feel whole again only to become restless under the restraints of the Washington press corps.

He smashed his fist against the steering wheel, eliciting a squawk from the horn and a spasm of pain in his right hand. He cursed and pulled the SUV into the left lane and cut on his lights and tapped the siren as he pushed the accelerator toward the floor.

His gut, long seared by the announcement of her departure, twisted as the adrenaline that always accompanied the speed and the siren kicked in. Weaving past the slowed and stopped vehicles he cursed himself as he saw a police car fall into line behind him.

For several miles the police vehicle trailed his SUV until it, too, peeled off in its own explosion of lights and sirens toward something off in the east.

He rode his own non-emergency emergency well past the traffic and lights of the city before he slowed down and turned off the beltway. Cutting the lights, he simply eased back into a slower pace with the sparse traffic losing the sense of urgency to flee to someplace. Anyplace.

The breakup had been slow in coming, but the signs were all there. He'd pasted on his best Booth smile and avoided all mention of his time as an Army Ranger sniper or his problems with gambling. Even his relationship with Bones had been whitewashed—all meager attempts to become the perfect boyfriend for the perfect girlfriend.

And somehow find a way to that all-elusive happily ever after.

Hannah had loved him when Bones could not. That had been the difference. She had loved him.

With no fear. No doubt. No hesitancy.

For the months she had been in D.C., they had beat back the laws of physics and created a few of their own. And he had felt confident and whole and in control.

And then she was gone.

He'd put on his best show—Seeley Joseph Booth. Top FBI agent. Devoted father. Ace lover. Good friend.

But his best wasn't good enough.

Slowing the truck as he found himself in a familiar neighborhood, he wondered if he really was meant to be loved.

He knew those thoughts were merely the leftovers from several days of trying to convince Hannah that she should stay with him. For each argument, Hannah had only remained more firmly determined to leave. Even Bones, who had as much reason as anyone to see Hannah leave, had tried to talk Hannah into staying.

For him.

With emotions warring with whatever rational thought remained in his wearied brain, he pulled into the parking lot of a small Irish tavern several blocks from Brennan's apartment. It was a small and intimate place, tucked in between a beauty supply shop and a pharmacy, both long since closed for the evening.

He'd come here once before with Brennan and her father. Max Keenan had pronounced them proud Irish one night and in a fit of generosity—much to Bones' chagrin—dragged them both here one night more than a year or so ago. The place had been a sea of rolling Irish smiles and laughter and impromptu song. "A touch of the old country," Max had said. Booth little doubted the man had any country he could rightly call home. But the musicians on the small platform stage that night had maintained an almost non-stop wall of songs that ran from sea shanties to the inevitable love ballad and he had to admit it had been a good night.

For all her hesitancy to follow her father's lead Brennan had relaxed into the evening, aided, no doubt, by the dark ales her father had pressed into her hands. It had been that night when he had heard her sing again, her voice clear and true, weaving a song of hopeless love lost. It had been a surprise, really. Somehow, her voice had risen above several in the crowd until they, too, fell away leaving hers in an impromptu duet with the singer on stage. His voice told the story of a young man bound to the sea while hers carried the tale of a young woman waiting for the man to return.

That night he did not know who was more surprised by the song— Max who had tears flooding his eyes at the sound of his daughter's voice, Brennan at her rendition that wove Gaelic and English lyrics into a mournful tale, or himself at the pure, plaintive tone of her voice that seemed to pluck at the heartstrings of more than one of the patrons.

The singer had tried to coax her on stage, but she resisted, no doubt, he realized later, at the reminder of the last time she had sung before a crowd.

But it still had been a good night.

Reeling from the drinks that had been pressed into their hands all night after her performance, the three of them had hailed a cab and made their way back to Brennan's apartment for coffee.

Yes, it had been a good, good night.

In spite of it all, he couldn't quite pick a good evening from the hundred or so he had had with Hannah. Perhaps the hurt was too recent. Too fresh. Too raw.

Sidling up to the bar, he waved down the bartender and ordered the best whiskey. "Leave the bottle," he said as the younger man poured a shot.

The man eyed him. "Hand over your keys and an address to pour the last dregs of what's left of you when you're done."

Booth almost wanted to rear back and howl at the audacity of the man, but he only laughed bitterly and set two twenties on the bar along with his keys. The Irish brogue the man donned had made his request seem almost too civilized. Pulling a card from his pocket, he penciled in his address. "What happened to the good, old anonymous drunk?" he asked as he placed the card on the bar.

"Don't ask, don't tell got repealed," said the young man. "If it applies to gays in the military who's to say it shouldn't apply to drunks on a weeknight?"

Booth started to laugh, the first time in a hell of a long time. It felt good.

"A good woman gone bad?" The bartender hovered a bit too long in front of him. "Or job woes? It be one or the other, I'm thinking."

He shook his head and pointed a single finger before downing the amber liquid. If he was going to get good and drunk at least the bartender had been honest in his drink selection. He felt this first drink soften a few of the jagged edges within.

The band—if a guitarist and a fiddler could be called a band—had stepped onto the platform and began to tune their instruments.

"You'll never plow a field by turning it over in your mind," the bartender was saying. Booth felt the sharp edges blur more with the second drink.

"What the hell does that even mean?" Booth asked.

"It means that nothing gets done by simply thinking on it," the man said. "Sometimes you truly need to talk about it. Air it out, so to speak."

"Not tonight," Booth muttered. "Not tonight."

For a moment longer the bartender remained in his sight, but the man retreated and left Booth to his own thoughts. And those he tried to judiciously drown in a river of Jameson's finest.

With the songs mirroring his mood, he wondered if he might be better off at home. But his apartment, empty of Hannah and her belongings, held no appeal. At least here he could drink and know he wasn't technically drinking alone.

"You really want to drink that all by yourself?"

The red-haired woman who slid onto the barstool next to him was round of face and wore a tight green blouse that barely contained her breasts.

After a moment's hesitation, he slid the bottle over to her and signaled to the bartender for another glass.

The woman sloshed the liquid into her glass. Her cleavage was something a man could get lost in on his way down a hard S curve toward—what was it that young Portland boy had called it—_the promised land_.

Taking the bottle back, he replenished his drink.

"I'm Sarah, just been stood up by big, stupid boyfriend." The woman leaned in, tipping her breasts toward him in an open invitation to dive in. "I'm looking to get numb, not dumb." She held out her hand. "You got a name?"

"Seeley."

The woman had leaned in so close he could smell the Jameson's on her breath. "Zee-lee? That some kind of rapper name?" She leaned in more, if that were possible. "You don't look like you're into hip hop. They're not playing hip hop, are they?"

He corrected her and held his ground despite her practically crawling into his lap. He glanced up and noticed the bartender leaning on the bar talking to a customer. "Just came in here for the music."

"You came in here looking to get drunk." She eyed the bottle. "A high class drunk, but drunk none. . .the. . . less." She grinned and straightened on her stool. The heat of her breath gave way to a cool front. "I came in here to meet my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend, turns out. He's POW."

"MIA."

"Mee-ahhh?"

He wanted to laugh. He seemed to always be correcting someone. "Missing in action. Not here. Missing."

She squinted one eye. "What did I say?"

"POW."

She pursed her lips and scrunched up her eyes. "POW. Stands for pretty awful wuss."

_Close enough,_ he thought.

She leaned in again. "You want to go someplace and screw until we can't remember our names much less theirs?"

The fog clouding his thoughts lifted and he shook his head. "No. I've screwed things up enough for now." He put his hands gently on her shoulders and pushed her back toward the bar until she was leaning on the polished brass rail. He stood up from his stool gingerly, and signaled to the bartender. "Let's get you a cab."

The moment he turned toward the bar spelled disaster as she practically fell into his arms. He felt a hand gripping his shoulder and pulling him around.

It was one of those bad scenes from a B movie. Man trying to forget the mess of his life becomes embroiled in another mess involving a woman he's just met at a bar who falls unceremoniously into his arms as very jealous and very strong boyfriend shows up at the wrong moment.

The look in the other man's eyes told him he should feel pain soon. Very soon.

And he didn't have any hope for a re-write as the woman in his arms seemed to go limp at the sight of her very jealous and very strong boyfriend.

He braced for the first blow.

Which never came.

The man seemed to rear back and only continued to fall backwards into a thudding lump on the floor.

And instead of a fist to the jaw and a man with a sneer on his face looking down on him, Booth continued to wrestle with the dead weight of the woman in his arms only to see another woman looking steadily at him.

"Bones?"

"Booth."

The stance she held told him a great deal although in his haze it took him several seconds for it to register. She'd taken down the behemoth in front of him with some sort of stealthy martial arts move.

In her eyes he saw a fleeting look of concern married with something else that flickered, then became hidden under a mask of neutrality as she relaxed her stance.

"You need some help?"

Between them, they were able to hold up the squirming woman only to let go finally and see her slide to the floor in a wail of woe.

"Oh, Henry," she cried, her voice drawing more attention than the near-fight. She had pulled his head to her lap and was cradling and rocking the man who appeared dazed. "Henry, my poor, little Henry."

"What are you doing here?" he addressed his partner as he tried to sidle away from the puddled couple on the floor. "How'd you find me?"

She pointed toward the bartender who was taking in the scene with some amusement. "He thought you might need a ride home."

"Yeah," he said automatically. _Home_. Without the benefit of the fine drunk he had planned numbing him, the word seemed much too loaded still.

But something still didn't make sense. "How did he know to call you? And how the hell did he have your number?"

She gave him that look—the one that he could never quite figure out these days—and nodded toward the door. "Do you really want to stay here?"

One look at the couple on the floor and the bartender eyeing them told him enough. "No, no. Let's get out of here."

He gave one last glance back at the couple on the floor as Brennan held the door for him. The woman had her boyfriend in a death grip of sorts, her hands full of his hair on either side of his head as she seemed to be pouring her heart out to him, emphasizing her points by bouncing his head on her lap. "And when you tell me you're going to show up. . . ."

Outside the cooler air zapped some of the liquor-induced fog and he realized the ache had only been dulled a bit around the edges. The loss of Hannah still made him feel hollow inside.

"I don't feel much like going home," he said. "Can we go get some coffee someplace?"

If Hannah had been a mere rolling stone in his life, Brennan was his rock.

"Sure," she said. He still couldn't quite read her—they'd become mostly just partners for the time that Hannah had been in his life—but she did seem to relax a bit.

Suddenly it became important for him to set the record straight. "I wasn't trying to pick up that woman, Bones. I just went in there for a drink. A lot of drinks. . . ."

She maintained that damned neutrality as he tried to explain the unexplainable. He had wanted to go off to some hole in the wall and feel sorry for himself or feel nothing at all. He'd made choices that had altered too many things in his life and yet, had left him right back where he had started.

They stood just outside the beauty parlor where the faded signs promised eternal good looks for the mere price of a stylish haircut. His own face, reflected dully back at him, appeared old and worn next to the smiling woman.

He shifted his topic in mid-sentence. ". . . I just wanted to get this right. I wanted it to be perfect somehow. She was perfect."

"There's no such thing as perfection, Booth. Mathematicians acknowledge . . . ."

He cut her off. "I know, I know." He could read the look on her face now. "I know. You're right. I was building sand castles in the air. . . . A fantasy, Bones."

"You loved her." It might have been the lighting, but he saw a faint glimmer of pain cross Brennan's face.

They stood there at another stalemate when the door of the bar burst open.

"There you are." The bartender held out his keys. "Thought you might be needing these."

Brennan took the keys and thanked him.

"Ever need any more giants slain, I know who to call." The bartender smiled at his partner. Then he cast a glance his way before facing Brennan again.

"_Bidh cron duine cho mòr ri beinn mun lèir dha fhèin e."_

He gave them a nod and a wave and retreated back into the bar.

The words rolled around his head but made no sense to his muddled mind. "What was that? Greek?"

"Gaelic," Brennan said as she started to walk down the street. He could see her Prius parked under a street light.

"You know what it means?"

"Roughly translated, it means a man's fault will be as big as a mountain before he sees it." She pressed her remote and he could hear the doors unlocking.

"What the hell does that even mean?" He bent to open the passenger door and felt his head protest at the movement.

Brennan quirked her mouth and tilted her head, shrugging as she did so. "Let me explain it to you over a cup of coffee."

"Booth?"

It took a moment for the voice to register.

"Bones?"


	2. Satisfaction

**Satisfaction: The Rolling Stones**

Ariana Moore's skull came to life as the light box flared on.

"It's just an unfortunate accident. She wandered off and died in the woods. She was just a kid. She got lost."

The deputy's voice rose with indignation. "What? You've got to be out of your mind. That man had something to do with her death. Why else would she run off like that?"

"Damned lawyers." Sheriff Jake Franklin leaned back against the pole and pondered the wisdom of pulling out his gun and shooting the man. "You need to grow a set, Carl. Damn you."

Whatever disagreement flashed around her, the brunette examining the X-rays paid it no mind. One by one she replaced each X-ray with another, her eyes reading each scan as her partner stood leaning against the autopsy table, his eyes taking in everything around him.

The lawyer pointedly ignored the visitors. "You want to see him charged with the death of that girl," Prosecutor Carl Beevis was saying, "but," and his voice rose with a conviction that he had little conviction in their case, "I can't promise anything more without good, solid evidence."

He raised his hands in surrender. "And right now, you've got nothing more than a body and some hearsay evidence that could be thrown out with tomorrow's newspapers because it isn't solid enough."

"A poor black girl is murdered by that rat bastard and you aren't going to lift a finger?" Deputy Janet Bitunjac was building up a good head of willfulness and she refused to back down. "That man murdered her as surely as I am standing here talking to you. Or are we dealing in more fantasies from the rich imagination of. . . ."

"Where's your proof?"

Sheriff Franklin turned away from the conversation that had turned into a one-woman diatribe on the inadequacies of the justice system. Never mind the social welfare machine that had helped Ariana Moore grow from a 7-year-old frightened girl who had just lost her only parent into a 15-year-old terrified girl who had simply become lost in the system.

The morgue, a shadowy place stuck in the basement of the old county courthouse, seemed like the appropriate place for this conversation, he thought. No one gave a damn about Ariana in life and this place of final woes was as good a place as any for the post mortem on her grim existence. Franklin hated the place as much as he hated the fact that Ariana, a shy, intelligent girl from all accounts, had probably received her one last act of kindness from the deputies who had gathered her scattered bones and brought them here.

"She was murdered."

"Dr. Brennan?" The argument ceased and the shadowy corners of the morgue seemed more ominous. Franklin turned toward the woman who had been intently focused on the X-rays. "Are you sure?"

"Do you have cause of death, Bones?"

Beyond the few words of introduction, her partner had said little. If the man had shaggier hair and a few well-placed tattoos, he might have qualified as one of the bikers who frequented Callahan's off the highway. With his broad shoulders and leather jacket, he looked more like one of the local toughs than an FBI agent.

"I'll need the lab at the Jeffersonian to run more tests," the good doctor was saying, "but it's clear that there's a compression fracture on the C-4," she pointed out something on the X-ray that Franklin couldn't quite see, "an unusual anomaly on the back of the skull here. . . . blunt force trauma to the skull. The other injuries are consistent with someone hitting her with a weapon approximately 5 cm in diameter."

The evidence was damning. Each X-ray offered up another piece of the picture that Franklin hated more and more. Fractures, healed fractures, displacement of this, curvature of that, odd lipping on bones—the girl's skeleton which lay on the second autopsy table—appeared to be a roadmap of abuse and pain and more suffering than anyone should see in a lifetime.

For several moments after Dr. Brennan finished the laundry list of details she had gleaned from the X-rays and odd assortment of bones, the morgue was silent.

"She was beaten. Abused, tortured, whatever you want to call it." The FBI agent straightened and stared down the lawyer who looked as if he were about to speak. "And she was a foster child?"

Franklin felt that odd feeling in his gut. He hated how "There's no doubt?"

Dr. Brennan gave him her full attention. "The most recent injuries are consistent with someone putting up their arms in a defensive position. The damage to the skull most definitely killed her. But the other anomalies in the spine suggest that she was in a prone position for 6-8 hours a day for a period of time, perhaps as little as a year."

He heard his deputy's strangled groan as the implications became clearer.

"I'll need to examine the bones more closely to be more definitive about the weapon."

Franklin finally found his voice. "Would keeping a child locked up in a box, 3 feet by 3 feet cause that stuff to happen to her spine?"

The FBI agent exchanged glances with the forensic anthropologist. "Yes," she finally said.

Agent Booth turned toward him. "You know how this went down?"

He felt his head grow heavy and thick. The words were slow in coming. "James Lobitz is a beekeeper. Keeps three or more dozen hives on his place. He could have locked her in a box about the size of one of his hives and no one would have known."

The woman, who up until this point had seemed coolly efficient, almost untouched by the story she had deciphered from the X-rays, seemed to be visibly moved at the suggestion, but recovered her composure quickly to adopt a neutral veneer.

Her partner ignored her reaction. "How do you want to proceed, Sheriff?"

Franklin thought that the studied manner in which Dr. Brennan had assessed the remains and X-rays had won him over, but Agent Booth's simple statement had certainly earned his respect. Never mind that these two investigators had braved a foggy coastline and insane travel times to help in the case. Franklin knew his gut instinct was right—Ariana Moore had been murdered and her foster parents had had something to do with it.

"Technically, it's not an FBI matter." Bitunjac had finally regained her own voice. "But in this fog, I know I'd welcome another set of eyes." She smiled, the one she usually reserved for Pete Jackman at the hardware store. "Especially a set of eyes all the way from our nation's capital." She cast hopeful eyes Franklin's way.

The agent pressed on. "You have enough to get a warrant, Sheriff." He looked pointedly at his associate. "The next move is yours, Sheriff."

He looked at the people in front of him. Deputy Bitunjac had almost a feral look about her. Carl Beevis looked like he had swallowed his tongue.

And the two people from D.C. who had confirmed his worst nightmares? They had seen this kind of thing before, probably worse. But he could tell they hadn't lost their sense of humanity.

He found the words although they seemed strangely flat in that place of death. "We can't give Ariana back her life or the life she should have had. But we can give her some satisfaction in knowing that people cared enough about her to find out what happened to her."


	3. Imagine

**Imagine: John Lennon**

"Great ocean view."

The cloud surrounding them obscured almost everything save for the balcony adjacent to theirs. Booth, his hands deep into his jacket pockets and his face grim, seemed just as shrouded in gloom as the fog hugging the coastline of North Carolina.

She caught herself before launching into an explanation of how the salt of the Atlantic contributed to the meteorological phenomenon. Her observation about the thickness of the fog being largely determined by the altitude of the inversion boundary had only earned a grunt earlier.

Brennan tried a different tack. "Do you want to get some dinner?" She kept her voice hopeful. Positive. "The sheriff says that the diner in town has good pie."

All day long she had tried either to ignore his mood or to crack it to no avail. He had remained glum and distant, only flashing his smile to the female deputy who had accompanied him into the field while she had remained bound to the basement of the courthouse, defleshing the bones and cataloging injuries. Her own mood, ravaged by his crankiness and the dungeon-like qualities of the morgue, teetered on the edge of a knife.

"No," he finally sighed. He palmed the back of his neck and sighed again. "I'm just going to order in a pizza and watch the game on TV."

That was it. That was Booth. Ever since his breakup with Hannah, he had remained distant and out of sorts.

If Angela were here or even Cam, perhaps they could cajole him out of this mood. Certainly Parker would have earned more than a grim smile. In the past, she had been able to chip away at whatever fog hovered about him and burn it away with clear insights or an occasional stab at humor.

But nothing she did or said seemed to work these days.

Temperance Brennan studied the profile of her partner for a moment. At one time she would have offered to stay to keep him company. At one time she could have sat quietly and waited out his moodiness. At one time.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow morning."

She should have phrased it like a question for all the uncertainty that seemed their lot these days.

He had pointedly turned to the restaurant guide and was thumbing through it. "Good night, Bones."

She retreated, a habit acquired in the days in which Hannah Burley had been the focus of his interest.

Outside along the boardwalk, the fog provided a kind of maze—pockets of visibility layered in between dense clouds. If she was in a more metaphorical frame of mind she might say the weather conditions mirrored the relationship she now had with her partner of 6 years: dense patches of discomfort with few clear pockets of easy companionship.

For all the pain she had felt watching Booth and Hannah together as a couple, she almost wished the journalist had remained in his life if only to help maintain his good mood. These days he seemed sad, almost unsure of himself. While part of her had rebelled to see him flash his smile at the deputy today, she was almost glad that there was someone who could elicit that kind of reaction from him.

It certainly wasn't her.

Anyone who had thought that with Hannah gone her relationship with Booth would have returned to something like it had been in the past would have been sorely mistaken. If anything, the evidence was building to a conclusion she was almost desperate to prove wrong—Booth no longer valued their partnership, no longer wanted that or any relationship with her.

Certainly he still needed her expertise to solve murder cases. Beyond the cases, she was little more than. . . than what? The drive here from Washington had been 3 tense hours of silence and only 14 minutes and some odd seconds of conversation. Her observations beyond the case were met with more silence or unintelligible grunts or sighs.

She knew her confession some weeks back coupled with Hannah's departure had only contributed to the awkwardness between them now. For her part, she had had some time to adjust to the fact that Booth had loved Hannah, not her. Love, that ephemeral emotion, had been as fleeting as she had always maintained; Booth no longer wanted her.

He had made that clear in her own moment of clarity when her mind had caught up with her heart.

Replaying the events of the past few months only convinced her that Booth had been right to move on; she was a poor second to someone like Hannah. Temperance Brennan was bad at romantic relationships. She lacked the raw materials for such a relationship. So she had offered up her best gifts—an objective ear and eye whenever Booth or Hannah had needed it. She had given him the space he needed and had never asked him for anything more than friendship.

And even that, she feared now, had been too much to ask.

As she rounded the corner, she tried to imagine how their partnership might have been without coma dreams and misguided proposals and tardy epiphanies.

"Dr. Brennan?"

Startled from her roiling thoughts, she found herself outside a storefront with a concerned sheriff in front of her.

"Dr. Brennan? Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry, I was just. . . lost and found in thought," she offered.

"Interesting way to put it," the Sheriff said as he smiled. "Did you come here for dinner?"

She nodded, feeling foolish that her distraction had taken her this far without conscious thought.

"C'mon. Join me for dinner. It's good, solid American food, whatever that is," he said, holding the door open for her. "Besides, they've got great pie."

She allowed herself to be lead to a corner booth. The sheriff kept up a steady stream of conversation with the waitress and patrons coming and going past them.

"I hope you don't mind," he said as he poured a large puddle of ketchup on his plate of fries. "A small town sheriff gets to know just about everybody in a place like this."

She watched as he pushed the plate toward her. "You need to establish your voter's base in order to maintain your position as sheriff since it is an elected office."

He sat back, a huge smile creasing his face. "My wife would have liked you." Franklin studied her and she had the feeling that he shared more traits with Booth than a love of pie. "She died of pancreatic cancer three years ago." He picked up his fork and speared a tomato from his plate. "Opposites attract, I guess. Fire and ice. But she had a heart of pure gold."

"I'm sorry."

He waved off her sympathy. "We used to come to eat here for dinner, just the two of us." Franklin set his fork down and picked up his water glass. "Even when the kids were little. Eating together was a way to connect, reconnect."

"Eating together in many societies is embedded with deep social symbols and meanings signifying kinship, friendship, political relations, and social status," she offered.

The sheriff let out a low whistle. "Your Agent Booth said you were a genius. A regular walking encyclopedia."

Brennan ducked her head down and concentrated on her plate, uncertain of how to take Booth's compliment. She felt Franklin's hand on her wrist. "He said you were the very best in your field and the best possible partner to have."

Her eyes caught his and while she did not think it entirely rational, she had no doubt in the sincerity of his words. She swallowed back the feelings rising inside her.

"You've given back that little girl her name. Nothing can give her back her life, but by all the rules set down by society, you've done something special." He considered her a moment longer as she tried to find her own equilibrium at this turn of the conversation. "I called out to Schilling's Funeral Home to see about her burial and they told me someone had already made arrangements."

"Good," she said.

"Going to bury her next to her father. Headstone and everything."

She nodded.

"Only someone special does that kind of thing. Someone with a good heart. Treats the dead with the same courtesy as the living."

oOo

In walking back toward the hotel, Sheriff Franklin at her side balancing the large slab of apple pie between them, Brennan was able to give few thoughts to Booth or to their relationship. The Sheriff had held up his end, pointing out fog-covered landmarks that he promised looked much better under sunny skies or providing trivial insights into the town's origins.

She gave him the better part of her attention grateful for something to distract her from her own foggy thoughts.

Making her way down the hallway of the hotel to their adjacent rooms, she could make little sense of Booth's recent behavior except to acknowledge his need to grieve the loss of Hannah. Time, Dr. Sweets had cautioned, was the only real cure for such a loss. Sweets had gone so far as to remind her about the engagement ring—no doubt, she thought, to gauge her reaction and add it to his psychological profile on her.

In the trek from the diner, she had decided to try something new tonight: offer to watch the game with Booth while he ate his pie. It was old, familiar territory for them. She would offer; he could accept or reject. Either way, her true purpose was to bring him a slice of pie and a last update on their case from the Sheriff. The offer would only be another way to. . . what had the Sheriff said? Connect. Reconnect.

Balancing the heavy stoneware plate in one hand, she assaulted the door with the other. "Booth?" she called between her knocks.

The hotel, built for the summer crowds in the 1920s still retained elegance in the details. The heavy wooden door had a firm feel beneath her fist. "Booth?"

The brass doorknob turned and she found herself staring into the face of Deputy Janet Bitunjac. With her red hair cascading around her shoulders and a tight sweater meant to accentuate her breasts, Brennan had little doubt about the purpose of the visit.

"Bones?"

Booth peered at her above the head of the woman, a towel wrapped around his neck.

Bitunjac grappled with an explanation. "I just stopped by. . . ."

"I brought you some pie, Booth," she interrupted, not caring about social niceties. She pasted on a smile as she dug in her pocket for her key. "Have a good evening."

She turned and strode to her own room feeling incredibly tired and frayed. She could see Booth with her peripheral vision standing outside his room, the pie plate in hand, but she didn't care to decipher what it meant. What anything meant. Stuffing her feelings down, she was immediately thankful that the door clicked open and she could slip inside.


	4. What's Going On

**What's Going On: Marvin Gaye**

Booth watched as she carefully placed each bone in the open casket, her movements elegant in their precision. It seemed like forever since he'd been in the lab watching her work and here, deep in the bowels of the county courthouse, she still retained that distinctively studied manner that was almost poetic in form.

"Bones?"

She cocked her head as she arranged the skull at the head of the casket and nodded to the bearded man who brought the lid down.

"You weren't in your room this morning. I thought we could have breakfast."

His knocks on her door last night had gone unheeded and his phone calls had gone immediately to voicemail. This morning had been only more of the same.

She snapped off the latex gloves as the two men wheeled the gurney from the morgue. She seemed to pointedly avoid looking at him.

"I wanted to get a head start on the paperwork." She was pulling together a few items on the sole desk in the room. "I also had some things to work out with Cam."

He stepped closer. Brennan sorted the papers on the desk into folders and divided them into three piles. The crash doors behind them thudded close and they were alone.

"I just thought we could eat breakfast together."

He kept his tone hopeful, part of him praying she would move on from last night's scene in his room.

She looked up from her laptop that she was closing then encasing in its sleeve. "I thought you'd be having breakfast with Deputy Bitunjac."

Booth closed his eyes and tried to wish it all away—the whole mess he'd made of his relationship with Hannah and now the current one with Brennan. He should have done something last night to sketch a clearer picture of what had happened, but his ego had not let him.

She took his silence for an admission. "Sweets would probably say that entering into another sexual relationship so soon after ending one with Hannah was healthy, although he would probably use a colloquialism such as getting back at the horse that threw you."

Her expression was neutral, but he had the sense that was only because she was retreating further into herself.

"Up; it's back up on the horse."

"Sex is a healthy. . . ," she started, weaving together a familiar topic with pheromones and seratonin levels and enough squintology to drive a man insane.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he interrupted her all-too-clinical lecture. "It's none of your business if I slept with Janet or not."

His words rattled around the empty morgue.

They were effective enough to halt her explanation. He could tell he had stung her. She stood before him with that damned neutral expression cooling on her face offering no hint as to the rich emotional life he knew existed behind the facade. And somehow he knew in that exact moment he had been the chief architect of this new wall she'd erected.

But she couldn't just allow the growing silence to speak for them; she had to unleash the truth.

"It was clear that she wanted to sleep with you, Booth. A healthy, adult male such as yourself. . . ."

"Stop it. I did not sleep with that woman, Bones."

His voice had risen to cut her off and seemed to bounce around them in the empty morgue. This time the silence was painful. And all too short.

"I didn't mean to interrupt anything last night, Booth."

This time he caught a flicker of emotion and it startled him at just how raw it was.

Pain.

The old building creaked around them, settling its hundred-year old frame deeper into the soil. In the hollowness of that room, he could find no words to explain anything that had happened over the last several weeks much less the last 72 hours. She had just provided him an uncensored insight into what she was thinking and feeling, and he had no response but a damnable silence.

They had tried to make this work. Partnership. Hell, he didn't even know what it meant anymore. They solved cases together. They put things right for victims and for the families. She unlocked the mysteries of the bones and he arrested the bad guys.

But they had never really tried to set things right between them. They'd only put on their best faces and pretended that all was right with their world. And he didn't really know where reality began and the fantasy ended.

"Our agreement, Booth, was for me to work in the field as well as in the lab." Her words were cool, measured. "Sometimes my services are more valuable in the lab than in the field as evidenced by this case."

"What?" He choked out the word. "What's going on, Temperance?"

He caught the surprise at his use of her first name.

"I understand that you merely acted as a consultant to the sheriff and his deputies in this case, Booth." She forged on with her explanation and he hung on trying to make sense of what she was saying and fearing where she was going. "I understand that I was needed here, in the morgue, providing a complete examination of the bones and maintaining contact with the team at the Jeffersonian."

"I didn't mean to exclude you, Bones."

"I know that." She shifted her stance. It was painful to watch her. "I also know that you are upset and hurt over Hannah's departure. I know you loved her, Booth, and you hold great store by romance and establishing familial bonds and you saw Hannah as an opportunity. . . ."

"Bones." He didn't want an entire recap of his shattered hopes especially since he had done most of the damage himself. "Just tell me."

He saw her slight nod before she took in a deep breath as if she were steeling herself for something more to shatter between them. "I'm not going back to Washington with you. Russ and Amy have invited me to stay with them for a week. My father is driving down and is going to join us."

There it was. In the silence were the unspoken hurts they had unleashed on the other and she was going off to lick her wounds.

She was hugging herself as she continued. "I've made arrangements for Dr. Edison to be your forensic anthropologist. He has no strong desire to be in the field, however, he may. . . ."

He let the details wash around them. It wasn't Maluku or some remote country filled with mass graves or ancient skeletons. But she had found a way to give them both some time and space.

". . . I've already informed Cam that I will be available, if the need arises. I'm only a few hours away by car."

Booth let out the breath he was holding. He tried a grin. "You're going on vacation." He searched her face. "I thought. . . I thought for a second there that you, you wanted to end our partnership."

This time he caught the emotion radiating from her; it was the same emotion thumping in his chest and making it difficult for him to breathe.

"We both need some perspective, Booth." Her voice was barely a whisper. She shifted again, her discomfort obvious. "The FBI and the Jeffersonian can do without us for a little while."

The ache that had seeped into his bones some time ago returned. He'd made a mess of things and his bruised ego and stubborn pride had only compounded it of late. But he didn't have the words or even a clear vision of what he could say or do to make things right again. To make them whole.

So he stood there, silent and uncertain.

"It's just a week, Booth." The careful veneer had slipped away and she was almost begging him to understand. "I'll be back in seven days."

If he had a response, it would have been cut off by the crash doors banging open. "Hello?"

"Dad?"

Max Keenan ambled into the room looking around him. "Russ sent me down to get you. He was afraid there'd be a few corpses laying around here." He grimaced. "He's got a weak stomach for that kind of thing."

He sketched a hello to his daughter and stuck out his hand for Booth. "So you two wrapped up another one?"

Keenan's handshake was firm and hard, just like the man could be.

"Yeah, yeah," Booth sputtered and looked at his partner. "Another one."

"Fog's cleared, honey. I started early this morning and made great time. Everybody's upstairs in that mini-museum thingy." He stopped and waited. And waited until waiting became awkward. "I interrupted something, didn't I?"

Brennan sighed but stood her ground.

"No, no," Booth finally said. "We're fine."

His partner caught his eyes and for a moment he believed it.

"So, let's say we blow this pop stand for that inn you were talking about, honey."

"It's a morgue, Dad. Not a pop stand."

"Pop stand, morgue. It's cold and creepy down here. Let's get upstairs where there's sun and warmth and get some lunch."

Keenan was herding his daughter who had swept up a handful of folders and was heading toward the door. "You're coming, aren't you, son?"

Booth stood frozen, still uncertain. Nothing had been settled. They could clear a case but not the crap that remained unspoken between them.

"Booth?" Brennan had stopped by the door. "I made reservations at Cheddar's Inn for _all of us_."

Her eyes were an open invitation.

"I'd get out of here before they bring in another dead body for the two of you to investigate."

"Dad."

Brennan's eyes hadn't changed. She beckoned him with her head. "C'mon, Booth. Lunch."

'You've got to come, Booth." Keenan leaned toward him. "You'll even out things. Four girls, three men. Otherwise they outnumber us and who knows, we'll end up at some kind of frilly doll shop or something."

"Girls?"

"Women." Keenan made a quick adjustment. "_Women_."

"Two women and two girls to be exact."

"Anyway you look at it, we're still outnumbered."

Booth made his own quick adjustment. He strode toward Brennan and took the folders from the crook of her arm. "We'll drop these off with the Sheriff, and meet you there, Max."

There was a hint of a smile from his partner. Even in the depths of that cold, dark place, his own fog was beginning to lift.


	5. Respect

**Respect: Aretha Franklin**

"Mahatma?" Russ leaned in. "That's not a word. That's someone's name."

"It's an adaptation of the Sanskrit word _mahātman_."

"Sanskrit? It's a foreign word. You can't use that."

"It's a title, Russ." Tempe observed amid the giggling that Haley was trying hard to contain. "More correctly, a term of admiration in India."

"It means one, a person to be revered for high-mindedness, wisdom, and selflessness," Emma was reading from the dictionary, "or two, a person of great prestige in a field of endeavor."

Russ held up his hands in surrender. "Great, now you've got my kids playing against me."

Leave it to Tempe to dominate the Scrabble game, thought Amy as she watched her sister-in-law bicker with Russ. She didn't quite know if it was the Brennan stubbornness that made the game so competitive or their tenacious belief that people had to earn what they got.

It didn't hurt that the woman was a genius.

"Triple word score and nine points for taxa," Max had started to add up the score, "gives her 54 points. . . ."

"She used all her letters, Grandpa," Haley piped up. "She gets points for that."

"Taxa?" Russ was not letting it go. "Taxa? You made that up."

"I did not."

"It means the plural of taxon." Emma beamed at Russ. Her dictionary fingers had been flying almost all night.

"Taxon? Is that some kind of disease? I thought we made a rule that you couldn't use diseases," Russ countered.

"Or bones," Emma added.

"Taxon is a taxonomic category or group, such as a phylum, order, family, genus, or species," Temperance supplied. "It's perfectly legal."

"You're just making that up, now," Russ argued.

But Emma's decisive head shake as she held the dictionary open told him he had lost that argument as well.

"What do you do at night," Russ asked, his indignation taking on comic proportions much to the amusement of his two stepdaughters, "read the dictionary?" He swept Haley up onto his lap and hugged her. "Or maybe she sleeps with the dictionary under her head, huh?"

Ever the literal one, Temperance cocked her head in annoyance. "Sleeping with a dictionary under my head would be very uncomfortable."

Haley's squeals at Temperance's comment sent Emma and Max over the edge with laughter as well.

Temperance, all-too-aware that the laughter was at her expense, simply leaned back and did something extraordinary, Amy noted. She laughed, too.

oOo

The Brennans were certainly very different than her own family, Amy thought as she turned down the bed. Her mother would fuss over the girls almost smothering them. Her own sister treated Haley as if she were a China doll.

But not Max and certainly not Temperance. They'd sit down to a game of Scrabble with the girls and everyone needed to hold onto their seats because neither gave ground. It was entertaining and pretty educational if a not bit intimidating.

She studied Russ as he turned down his side of the bed and wondered just how she had gotten so lucky. He was a good man who adored her kids— _their _kids—and he worked hard to keep them together. God knows it was hard enough being a single mother with two girls, but to have one of the girls sick with cystic fibrosis and a man who did not run in the opposite direction was simply one of the small miracles of her life.

"What?" Russ had caught her staring.

"I was just wondering if you asked her yet," she said, sliding into bed.

"About the genetic carrier test?" Russ slid in next to her bed.

"No."

"If she'd looked online for a hood ornament for that. . . ."

"No."

"The recipe for that garbanzoglock she made tonight?"

"No."

"Then what?"

Amy raised herself on one arm and stared at her husband. The soft flecks of grey in his hair gave him a distinguished look. She slapped at his arm with her other hand.

"Ow."

"Why she's here." Amy poked at him. "It's not like her to come for a visit like this. With your father, too. Something's up."

Russ sighed. "Dad's been after her to come down for a visit. She gave in. End of story."

"Your sister doesn't give in that easily to your father. You're a pushover compared to her."

He groaned.

She poked at him again. "Even you know something's up. She calls one night and asks if she can come down for a visit and you ask her to stay the week. And bring your father into it to boot."

"You don't want her here?" He turned his face to hers.

"No. I like your sister. She's odd. One minute she's Emma's homework hotline, everything you ever wanted to know about the periodic table of elements and then some and the next minute she doesn't have a clue who Justin Bieber is."

"Does anyone really know who Justin Bieber is?" He shifted in the bed. "Tempe never considered some of that stuff important. And you know what? Some of it really isn't."

This time Amy sighed. "When she first got here, she seemed, I don't know, sad."

"She didn't seem sad tonight, did she?"

Amy could hear the subtle shift in Russ' tone. He'd been concerned about his sister, too, although he hadn't voiced it until now.

"She said the case they just closed was about a 15-year-old foster child." Amy paused uncertain if she wanted to open this can of worms. The special care Russ had taken in telling the story of their parents' disappearance had made her feel sorry for the 19-year-old Russ and the 15-year-old Temperance. She couldn't imagine how difficult a time it had been for the two of them. Or how their pain had kept them separated for 15 years. "Do you think that has anything to do with why she's here?"

Russ' initial silence spoke volumes. "I don't know," he said eventually. Russ let out a long, deep breath. "Mom was better at getting Tempe to open up than I was or even Dad. She's just not going to tell me if she doesn't want to."

"What about her partner? Booth? Is something going on there?"

Russ shifted in the bed further and she could feel his leg brushing hers. "Dad said Booth's got a girlfriend. Or had one. Reporter, writer. I'm not sure."

"That's it." Amy lay back on her pillow sure the mystery had been solved.

This time Russ was up on one arm staring at her. "No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not." He poked at her. "No. They're just partners."

"If you say so," Amy said.

"They're just partners, hon. There's nothing wrong with Tempe. She's just come here for a visit with my dad."

oOo

When she returned from work that Friday, Amy thought—and not for the first time that week—that we that she could get used to coming home to a clean house and dinner cooking in the kitchen. Max and Temperance had already stocked the cupboards with enough provisions to last a siege and neither one had stinted on lending a hand cooking or helping with the girls.

She watched her sister-in-law working quietly in the kitchen. Friday nights they usually ordered in a pizza and camped out in front of the TV set, but tonight they were being treated to. . . well, she wasn't sure what they were being treated to. Bowls of cheeses and vegetables lined the table and several pans were already prepared with. . . .

"Pizza?" The woman had prepared the makings for a pizza orgy. "We're having pizza?"

"You expressed a desire for Haley to learn how to cook, but she's been reluctant, and I thought she could learn to prepare her own meal in a communal setting in which her family members prepare their own meals as well." Temperance swept her hand over the waiting bowls. "This way she would learn some of the fundamentals of food preparation in a relaxed and non-judgmental setting within a supportive framework of familial relations and not feel stigmatized by her special dietary needs due to her CF."

The woman is a genius, Amy thought—and not for the first time that week—she is just so oddly thoughtful, too.

"I married the wrong Brennan," Amy said.

The look on Temperance's face betrayed her confusion.

"I just meant," Amy started, "you've, this. . . this was very thoughtful of you. Thank you. Russ and the girls will love making their own pizzas."

The slow nod told her there was some understanding. "Haley's being a bit sensitive about her diet. Extra fat, extra salt. Extra this, extra that." She slid onto the stool at the island. "She just wants to be a normal kid. I want her to just be a normal kid."

"But she isn't normal. Cystic fibrosis affects. . . ."

"I know, Temperance." Amy raised her hand as if to stop a repeat of what she knew so well. "We try to make her life as normal as possible, but she still sees that it isn't normal." She caught the corner of a placemat with her finger and straightened it. "You've been good for her. She asks a question and you have an answer for her. Everything is _rational. _You've got a disease, a bad one, so deal with it. Do everything you have to do to manage it so it doesn't manage you."

"She is a very bright little girl." Temperance spoke slowly. "She needs to understand how the disease affects her so that she can take corrective measures."

"She's very lucky to have you, someone like you, in her life." Amy warmed up to her point. "You see it as a problem to be solved. She sees you just plunging right in on everything, like you can do anything if you just set your mind to it. Like cooking this week, or that car," she gestured toward the carport just beyond the window where a 1932 Packard roadster sat in pieces. Big pieces, but still, in pieces. "You see a problem and you face it head on. It's rational and smart and it's been good for her. Really good."

Amy saw a glimmer of something in Temperance's eyes that she couldn't name, but she plunged ahead anyway. "I think she needs to see someone who sees a need and just dives right in." She searched for the word. "Intrepid, you know. You're intrepid. Fearless in the face of it all."

If she had made her point, she wasn't sure as the kitchen door swung wide and Max lead her daughters into the kitchen.

"Look who I found."

She caught Emma in a hug and looked over at Haley who was eyeing the assortment of bowls and their contents with a mixture of rapture and curiosity.

"What's for dinner, honey? Choose your own meal?" Max's tone was infectious and she watched her daughters warm to the idea. "Make your own pizza night. Kind of like choose your own culinary adventure, right girls?"

Max' enthusiasm for anything Brennan caught the imaginations of both girls who began to plan out their pizza adventures. Amy cast a look at Temperance. Max and the girls were already staking their territory, but not Temperance. She seemed on a different adventure, her face a roadmap for some sort of darker introspective journey.

oOo

"That should do it."

Russ handed his wrench to Max who handed it to Emma who handed it to Haley who replaced it in the toolbox.

"You know, you said that an hour ago," Amy taunted.

"O ye of little faith," intoned Max. "Try it now, Tempe."

Amy held her breath. In fact, time seemed to move a bit slower as they all waited for the Packard's engine to roar back to life.

And they waited.

"Haley?"

Temperance waved their youngest to the driver's seat and scooted over. The girl slid in and was beaming. Temperance whispered something to the girl who nodded and reached out with her foot.

"You'll have to give it the gas, Tempe."

Straddling the seat with one foot on the gas, Temperance talked Haley through the startup.

Russ started his own countdown. "Five, four, three, two. . . . "

The Packard grumbled to life.

"I told you I could fix it."

Max had invited along a third house guest with them that week in the form of a 1932 Packard that had seen better days. Russ had pronounced it fixable and with a crate full of parts, they had turned the sleeping giant into a roaring monster.

"It still needs upholstery and a paint job," Amy said, "and I still need new curtains in my bedroom." The men continued to hover over the engine of the car. The girls had long since retreated into the house after each of them got several turns at starting up the engine. The sun was slowly retreating itself. "And it's really worth something once they get it put back together?"

"Yes," Temperance said as she swiped a rag at a streak of grease on her chin. "Over a hundred thousand dollars."

Each time she asked the question, she expected a different answer. Max was a crafty old bugger, a man who liked to grace his family with grand gestures. And while Temperance had gone along for the ride, it was clear who had been the financial backer in all this. No, she really hadn't minded a visit from the Brennans. "And you know someone who might be interested in buying this car?"

"One of the scientists at the lab collects vintage cars. I'll ask him."

Amy shook her head. "Your father cooked up this thing, didn't he? So Russ could fix up the car and we could sell it to make some money?"

"Yes."

It was that simple answer, that truthful answer that Amy liked best about Temperance Brennan. She was honest. Sometimes painfully so, but Amy appreciated the honesty especially given her father-in-law's shady past. Max might prevaricate and obfuscate, but Temperance never did.

All evening long Amy had been curious about the slight change in Temperance's demeanor. She'd been quiet, more observant, almost as if she were living on the outside looking in. Only when Russ and Max had enlisted her help in working on the car had she seemed to blend in again and put down the invisible walls that had kept her apart from the rest.

"Booth would like this," Temperance said after some time. "He'd like to be out here drinking beer and working on the car with Russ and my Dad."

Amy looked across the table at the woman. Her expression in the growing gloom was wistful.

"He likes old cars?"

There was a slight smile. "Booth says that they don't build them like they used to." She shrugged. "I think he was being metaphorical because manufacturing methods have evolved over time and clearly _they_, which I assume to mean the manufacturers, certainly don't make _them_, the cars, by the same methods. If they did," she said, "pollutants in our atmosphere would be at least triple what they are today."

Amy couldn't help but smile. She liked this Temperance as well. Overly analytical and precise.

And in love.

Temperance hadn't talked about Booth much at all during the week, but the look on her face when she said his name aloud was open and unguarded.

And all too easy to read.

Amy wanted to ask her, wanted to probe this Temperance that she hadn't seen before, but out of respect for her privacy, she said nothing. She simply sat and sipped her beer and watched the day turn to night.

**Happy New Year! **


	6. Good Vibrations

**Good Vibrations: The Beach Boys**

_She was beautiful. _

_Tall. Killer curves. Long brown hair framing a model-perfect face. _

_And if the guy encircling her waist with his arm and pulling her to him was any indication, taken._

_Probably nightly. And in various positions. _

"Grief is natural, Booth. It's a process of allowing. . . ."

He wanted Sweets to shut up already about grief.A drink at the local watering hole was supposed to be just a drink. _Yeah, he felt shitty. Still. Hannah was gone. The good vibrations were long gone on that one. He'd mucked that up royally. Bones was off with her brother and father. Their whole relationship was weird right now. But they'd work it out. They always did._

"You would feel better if you were able to express your feelings at the loss of. . . ."

He really just wanted to tell Sweets to shut up and leave him be. "I'm fine, Sweets, just fine." He gave him a smile and a slap on the back to prove it. "It was a good relationship, and now it's over and I. . . move. . . on."

_Move on. Move on. Move on. Move on. Move on._

"Okay, okay, I get it. You don't want to talk to me, but you really should talk to someone about what you are feeling. Dr. Saroyan, perhaps. Maybe Dr. Hodgins."

_Another looker at the bar. Shorter. Nice. Brunette. Brunette? _ "Or Bones." _Hell, I'm not talking to Bones about Hannah. _

"No, I don't think that's necessarily a good idea."

_What? Why?_ "Sweets? She's my partner." _Why doesn't he think I should talk to her?_

"I just think that maybe Dr. Brennan has a bit too much on her plate right now." _Sweets was running in the opposite direction on this one._ _Why? _"Besides, she's visiting her brother in North Carolina right now."

"Bones is fine, Sweets. She just wanted to see her family. Hell, we were practically in their backyard. Why shouldn't she take some time off and see them?" _What's wrong with Bones?_

"It's a little out of the ordinary for Dr. Brennan to take off like that. Especially right after a murder case in which the victim was a 15-year-old foster child who suffered abuse at the hands of her foster parents. So bad, in fact, that she runs off only to face the ultimate form of punishment from people who were supposed to protect her."

_Yes, Sweets, there were similarities. Believe me, Bones saw them. _"Bones was fine. And if she is dealing with the case in some way, don't you think it's a good idea for her to turn to her family?" _Because I sure as hell didn't give her too many opportunities to talk to me about it. The moment we go down that road again, it's just not going to work. That's insanity. _

"Yes, I agree. Dr. Brennan's actions suggest a healthier approach. . . ."

_Bones was fine. She's fine. F. . . I. . . N. . . E._ _Okay, maybe that was a little more of the weird. Is she fine or F, I, N, E fine? Stop it. STOP it. You don't want to go down that road again. Move on. _"Sweets, Bones is fine."

"I know it's been some time since you and Hannah broke up. I just wanted to check in and make sure that you were doing all right." Sweets was wearing his 'I know something that you don't know' face.

_He doesn't need to know that the apartment feels like the Verizon Center when the Capitals are out of town. Or that I'm keeping Bones at arm's length. "_Doing great, Sweet. Guys don't talk it out. We work it out. Sit ups. Pull ups. Some running. Good as new." He popped a pretzel into his mouth for emphasis. "Then I go out and arrest people."

"Well, I think that even Dr. Brennan recognizes the need to step back for a moment and assess the situation."

_Assess? Situation? You think that's what she's doing in North Carolina? She's running. That's what she does, Sweets. Runs off to some godforsaken place and re-ups her refrigerant levels so she can become the Queen of Vulcan. _"Don't bring Bones into this."

"Agent Booth, as your psychologist and as your friend. . . ."

_Agent Booth? That's FBI speak, Sweets. Stay on message here. Are you FBI shrink or friend? If you're not sure how can I know who I'm talking to?_

". . . If you need to talk, I'm available."

"I'm good, Sweets." _Be a friend and let me be. There are other women out there. Hell, just look at the women in here. They're safe bets, Sweets. Right now I need a safe bet. _

"I just want you to know I'm here to listen." _Who am I kidding? Safe bets?_ _I made a bad gamble on Bones. Real bad bet on Hannah. I got to quit gambling on women._

"All right, then." Sweets climbed off the bar stool. "Well, thanks for the drink, Booth."

A smile. A slap on the back. Another pretzel. Nonchalant. Lift the beer bottle and tip it in his direction while he makes his way out the door. _All right. _

_All right?_

_No. Not by a long shot. _


	7. Johnny B Goode

**Johnny B. Goode: Chuck Berry**

It makes sense that this is the meeting place. Dark, almost gothic shadows along the walls. Flooring from the age of linoleum—linoleum that creaks ever so slightly underfoot. Pillars kept the ceiling from caving in—pillars structurally sound but aesthetically unappealing if the attempts to cover them in childish scrawls are any indication.

It makes sense that this is the meeting place. A church basement. Below the confessionals where people reveal the darkest of sins here are the darker sins that can't be contained by the confessional. Sins of lust and greed and envy and sloth and wrath and pride and gluttony.

It makes sense that I'm here. Again. Trying to control the uncontrollable by giving up control. Stop controlling feelings, thoughts, people.

Those are the real sins.

"Hello, my name is John. And I'm a gambler."

But aren't we all?

Like that one guy who looks like he was rode hard and put up wet. Frank. Accountant type. He's here three times a week. You can smell the desperation on him. He's practically vibrating with the need to break his fast and buy a lottery ticket, a bingo card, a sweepstakes ticket. Anything. He needs something so badly he keeps coming back so he doesn't slip.

And that kid. He's 19 if he's a day. Tricky Mickey. Court ordered. Here daily and twice on Sunday. Gambled away his college fund and maxed out his parents' credit cards before they noticed. Hoping 12 steps will lead him back to the loving embrace of his family and his visits with God will answer his prayers that they can forgive him.

But we really have to forgive ourselves, first, don't we?

We're all here because we're addicted to the win. To the loss. To the sensations that come with the chance we might beat the odds.

I'm here because of Chuck Berry.

Yeah, I know. He fell sick from exhaustion. I read the papers.

No. I'm here because of the song. "Johnny B. Goode." Know it?

It's the song that comes into my head every time I get the urge to gamble. The urge doesn't go away, but it eases somewhat as Chuck starts to sing it in my head and I harmonize and I can practically start to gyrate with those funky hip. . . .

Okay, okay. You're thinking that's nuts. Maybe you're right. But I would argue that if Chuck Berry and his singing keeps me from laying it all on the line for that one impossible bet that sends me on my own personal road to hell, then I say sing on Chuck. Johnny, be good, tonight. Today. One day, one hour, one minute, one second at a time. Be good. Johnny, be good.

We all have our little quirks. There's Seeley. Law enforcement. You know the type. Has a kind of swagger that comes from knowing he's bad ass enough to carry a gun. Tough. And soft. He used to sit back in the chair like he was surveying all around him but you had to know that he's hypervigilant for a reason. Hell, it's a sad story to tell, but we all have one.

I'm veering off into another direction. Oh, yeah. Quirks. Seeley used to come in with these wild ties and striped socks twirling his poker chip or clicking his dice. I liked it when he was playing with the poker chip or the dice. It was like he was defying the gods of chance.

You do anything you can to stay sober.

Addiction can sneak up on you so you try to keep it at bay. Let me try to explain. Every New Year my family has potluck, but we have certain dishes that are required: ham and polish sausage with a generous side of horseradish. Yeah, we're Polish. So we have this tradition of seeing who can handle the hottest of the hot horseradish. The male members of the family eat the stuff by the spoonful to prove just how macho they are. Yeah, yeah, I know. It's weird. My uncle spends weeks ahead of the big event gathering up jars of the stuff and then re-labels them— Lotsa Hotsa, OMG, Fireball. . . you get the idea.

Most of them are pretty tame. But some sneak up on you and some hit you with a big whack of hurt. I tried the one he labeled Hot Mama on my sausage one year. A big whopping spoonful. At first—a millisecond, really—nothing. Then WHAM! It hits and it hurts. You can't breathe. Eyes water, sinuses clear, heart aches.

The best thing, of course, is to avoid eating the stuff. Right?

But each year the family pressure is too much and my nephews and my brothers and Uncle Louie all cave and pretty soon its heartburn city. You could power a trip to the moon with all the gas.

It's the same thing with gambling. Just avoid the things that hit and hurt.

But it's easier said than done.

That's why we're here. We want to eat that damned horseradish even if our eyes pop out. Just substitute gambling.

It's hard when someone in our group is having a hard time because they're family in a way. They're also a barometer by which you check yourself. You want them to do well even if you aren't because at least you know that someone else can do it. If they can, you can. Carla comes in here and between her kids and her old man she seems to be walking a tightrope between wanting to take care of herself and her family and throwing it all away on a little online betting. Her story helps me measure myself and how well I'm doing. It's human nature.

Lately, Seeley's coming in here twice a week. The swagger's gone as are the ties and poker chip and dice. He says it's not gambling just a break-up with his live-in girlfriend. Dunno. The swagger left a while ago, long before girlfriend showed up. He's trying to keep a lid on the gambling, but the lid is popping up now and then because all the underlying feelings and thinking are boiling away.

There are different kinds of gambling, you know? Like a big investment in a relationship that doesn't pay off. You keep thinking it's going to work and going to work and then, WHAM it hits and hurts when you least expect it. Sneaks up on you and takes your breath away while making your eyes water and your heart ache.

That's what I think happened to Seeley. He made some big investment in a relationship and was hoping, hoping and then WHAM. It hit him in the head and heart and he's been trying to get his bearings ever since.

He lost a big bet on someone and while it didn't tap out his credit cards, it tapped out his heart.

So he comes here hoping to regain control by trying to control the uncontrollable. It's hard to regain your balance that way. Just ask Frank who's looking all over for his. And Carla who has been baking cookies and pies and slowly cracking under the pressure of trying to be perfect mom because, hell, no one's perfect.

The program's about giving up control to regain control. Letting go and letting God. It's paradoxical but it works.

One day Seeley will get it back. When he gives up the control. When he stops trying to control the uncontrollable. So will Carla. And Frank.

Me? Right now I'm good. Tomorrow, who knows? But for now I've got Chuck singing loudly in my head, "Johnny B. Goode, Johnny B. Goode, tonight."


	8. Hey Jude

**Hey Jude: The Beatles**

"It's all about timing, Sweetie. In love and war it's really all about the timing."

The moment the words are out of her mouth, she realizes they are the wrong things to say. But it would definitely take a genius to figure out what to say. No, not Sweets genius. Or even Hodgins genius. More like Booth genius, that is, prior to him getting brain tumor, going to Afghanistan, getting hot girlfriend.

Angela leans forward and places her hand on Brennan's wrist and hopes to stave the panic that is evident.

"Ange, I don't think this is the right time."

"Right time? Sweetie, it may not be the right time but do you really want Booth to waltz in here tomorrow with another blonde bombshell on his arm?"

Okay, that should have quadrupled some of the tension if it had been anyone but Temperance Brennan, but it doesn't. It doesn't incite more panic, just something else. Just. . . .

Confusion.

Consideration.

Then that small, slow smile of understanding.

Followed by a powerful reminder of her pregnancy.

Angela rubs her stomach to reassure herself and the baby who is kicking. "Hey Jude," she says, her hand making lazy circles on her rounded stomach. "Hey Jude, it's all right."

The smile from Brennan is nothing like her earlier smile. This one is warm and understanding and untinged by doubt and sadness.

"Another new name, Ange?"

She nods, and wonders just how many more changes in her life she's going to undergo. She doesn't know if it's because of her pregnancy brain that has trouble deciding or if it is just her nature to try to sample as much of life as possible, but Angela realizes that it will be Brennan who helps her keep focus in the coming months. Certainly Jack, who indulges her the abrupt name changes and the flights into various birthing possibilities, will keep her grounded in his own way, but it is Brennan's voice that she sometimes hears inside her head that will keep her earth-bound.

She would like to return the favor.

The lazy path she traces on her swollen stomach slows as do the pangs from the kicks. "Okay, little one. There's my little soccer player."

The words are out of her mouth before she realizes she has said anything, and when she looks up Angela sees her best friend's look—a cross between amusement and wistfulness.

"You're being metaphorical about soccer."

It is at this moment she wants to tell Brennan to start yelling at Booth until the man stops being such an ass. Oh, she certainly supports Booth's right to fall into a relationship with anyone he wants, but the last few months have taken a toll.

Even Cam, who has been solidly in Booth's camp, seemed to hold her breath when Brennan took off for a week. The fear was clear—if Brennan chose to take off for something more scholarly, anything more than a few weeks—Cam could lose control over the forensics lab.

"I'm just saying, sweetie, that you don't know when the right time is going to be. But if you try to ease into things with Booth, try to make things more normal between the two of you," Angela has a captive audience and a willing audience all wrapped up in her best friend and she is taking full advantage, "then you show him you're willing to work at the relationship stuff."

Never in the years she'd known Brennan has she been given as much access to her friend's complicated and somewhat convoluted relationship with one Seeley Joseph Booth. Over a series of conversations that started when the Lauren Eames case ended, Brennan has slowly, _very slowly_, given up the secrets of what happened that sent them in opposite directions at one time and left one of them standing in the rain, almost a hood ornament, confessing her feelings to her partner.

"The only relationship we currently have, Angela, is that of being partners."

Brennan says this, not in the same oblivious, almost naïve way she used to say it, but in a resigned way.

She has no hope of them ever being more.

Angela is sure that is true in her friend's eyes, in part, because Booth has deliberately distanced himself from Brennan following Hannah's departure.

No wonder Brennan needed a week off.

Angela tries a different tack.

"Maybe you should just kick him in the head."

While the notion is satisfying, the image is almost too much for her friend who gives her a bewildered look.

"I don't mean literally, Sweetie."

But the idea is satisfying, almost too satisfying. Angela watches her friend retreat into the kitchen for a refill on their glasses of iced tea. Brennan has taken the lessons learned in the Eames case and used them to open up in the lab with the interns and others while shutting down as much as she could with Booth and his lady love Hannah Burley—late of Afghanistan, late of the Washington press corps and now, late of Seeley Booth's bedroom.

And, with Hannah firmly out of the picture, the relationship between the partners should be less complicated.

But it isn't.

"The man has control issues Bren," she says as Brennan places the iced tea in front of her. Brennan also replaces the cookies and fruit slices that have been devoured as they've tried to make sense of the Booth dilemma.

"I don't know what that means."

Angela always suspected that that statement wasn't entirely true, but she still tries to explain. "He's private, like you, sweetie. He doesn't want people to know some things about him because he's afraid they'll judge him."

She knows she's hit a nerve because it shows in Brennan's eyes. Angela half-expects Brennan to unfurl her iron curtain of control, but in Brennan's apartment that need to mask her emotions has been relaxed.

"And I'm private like Booth, too, so I don't want people to judge me as well." Brennan is doing that of late. It is freaky scary sometimes what kinds of leaps she takes with her genius brain, but it is also freaky cool to see how she tries to translate some of her insights into action. Yes, some of the translation has been awkward and painful and embarrassing of late, but Brennan forges on despite it all.

"Well, yes." Damn her, she was getting good at this. "But you also don't want to reveal too much about yourself because you don't want to get hurt."

That one needs to rattle around inside behind the iron curtain before Brennan will deal with it outside the red zone. Angela lets it be.

"So, back to the issue at hand."

"I'm bad at relationships, Ange."

"And how long have you had a relationship with Booth?"

Brennan knows. She can tell how long they've been partners down to the day.

"But we're just partners. That's all we've been, Angela. Partners." Her friend sighs and shakes her head. "Getting back to normal, which I assume means a civil and productive working arrangement complete with pleasant if not congenial interpersonal communication, has been abnormally hard."

In the past that word, _partners_, was a convenient wall to hide behind. Now it is a barrier to what Brennan wants with Booth. A blind woman can see it.

Angela doesn't need to remind Brennan just how unlike partners their partnership has been over the years. "His pride is hurt, Bren. He's keeping his distance because he is afraid "

The look Brennan gives her is a mixture of skepticism and hope. Brennan has been uncertain about what to do to ease tensions with Booth since Hannah's departure and this is another bout of self-doubt. A week away at her brother's has only helped reinforce her desire to fix things with Booth, even try for something more with him, but the doubt has only come back double strength when she returns to the real world. And Booth, Mr. Anti-Romance these days, hasn't helped.

"It's his pride, Brennan. It's taken a beating."

"First, me." Brennan might suck at romantic relationships, but she knows her Booth, Angela thinks. "Then Hannah."

Angela has to make this next part as rational as possible. "So you ease into this next part, Bren. You invite him out for coffee. A drink. You just let him be. If he wants to talk about Hannah, then let him talk. No matter how hard it is for you to hear it, let him talk." She's not sure of this next suggestion. "You've got to help him build up his ego."

Even Angela wonders about this part, but they've all seen parts of both Booth and Brennan that they haven't seen before. Booth's crushed heart has leaked out in all kinds of gruffness while Brennan seems to have developed cracks in that almost invincible shell of rationality.

Neither partner is happy.

"Just listen, Sweetie." Brennan's eyes, those blue eyes with flecks of gold that change in intensity with the light, offer up more self-doubt. "I give good advice."

Brennan has unfurled herself from the couch and is retreating into the kitchen to retrieve the pitcher of iced tea. The emotional challenge is weighing on her and she is seeking some kind of escape.

"Everyone needs to feel they're important."

"Booth," says Brennan as she tucks herself back on the couch after refilling her own glass, "is important. He protects certain segments of society from harm by investigating crimes and arresting the guilty parties."

"Exactly."

Maybe the Brennan of old might not have understood. But this new Brennan, love-torn and struggling to corral her galloping emotions is trying.

It takes her a beat, but she understands.

Or, at least it sounds like she understands.

"You want me to engage Booth in conversation with the intent of bolstering his ego by delineating his accomplishments in such a way as to allow him to see his importance to society."

Leave it to Brennan to make the simple complicated.

And Angela, to make the complicated simple.

"Sweetie," she says, her hands capturing Brennan's, "just tell him you want him. Let him know you've let him into your heart." She smiles reassuringly as she watches Brennan's doubt return. "It's the only way you'll make it better."


	9. Smells like teen spirit

**Smells Like Teen Spirit: Nirvana**

"Oh, you better believe it," he thundered, his voice rising to meet hers, "I will so be your biggest regret, lady."

The words slice the air between them. He has wounded her. But there is enough damage to go around. Her own words have opened old wounds and created new ones and his words have unleashed their own wealth of hurt on her.

For a long, agonizing moment they stand almost toe-to-toe, their breath ragged. They have little more to say- they've recounted every slight, every hurt, every missed opportunity and they stand empty of any more projectiles they can fling at the other.

He sees her take a step backward and he realizes just how hollow he feels. He's unleashed all the anger and bitterness and ache he's felt over the years and he stands before her trying to catch his breath. There's nothing more to say.

But there is one more thing left in the arsenal. One more explosion. Just one more.

Brennan sets it off. From anyone else it would be a small pop, but from her it is a bone-shattering explosion, deceptive because it is delivered in almost a whisper:

"Maybe we shouldn't be partners anymore."

oOo

The day begins early on the road as they head toward Virginia to gather evidence for the new case. They are heading toward a factory, one of those rare businesses in this part of Virginia that continues to churn out plastic bits that when added to other plastic bits becomes a bigger plastic bit that retails for $19.96 at Walmarts nationwide.

He's only half-listening to Brennan as she reads the information from the computer screen in front of her. She's doing it to have something to do. He has a vague idea of what the factory manufactures, but he doesn't care for the anthropological significance of this thingamabob or that whatsit, so he cuts her off and asks her to give him the basic information on the man they are going to interview. He hears the sigh she tries to suppress as she changes direction and finds the information only to relay it in that monotone voice of hers that she is using lately because she is so uncertain of how to act around him.

He's angry most of the time. Hannah was his one shot at happily-ever-after, but she split and love and desire have been replaced by a simmering sulkiness that sometimes boils over into a fierce, barely-controlled impatience.

He's been fighting the urge to gamble, fighting the urge to call Brennan's bluff on her regrets, fighting the urge to unloose a stream of invectives at the unfairness of the universe. Brennan was there to help him navigate the dark recesses of his guilt when Brodsky tormented his thoughts. He leaned on her too heavily he fears because it wasn't that long after he battled through the sniper case that Hannah called it quits on them.

His attempt to have a life beyond Brennan, beyond the Jeffersonian and the Hoover and the sadness and the misery of murder cases, has left him bitter and resentful.

Some days he wonders if he is channeling his father.

oOo

She switches directions easily on the computer files, her fingers flying before Booth can finish barking at her. She wonders why he bothers bringing her along when he mostly ignores her when he isn't wrestling control with his caustic remarks or unintelligible grunts.

She knows she shouldn't, but she begins to pick through the two offers for scholarly research that appeared in her in-box while she was away visiting Russ and his family. Cam had already fielded a third offer, that one from an archeologist in London seeking her input on skeletal remains found near a newly-discovered tomb in Tunisia. The pathologist mentioned the offer yesterday, her query marked by an emotion Brennan was able to identify as concern.

Angela confirmed that Cam does not want her to leave again for more than a few weeks.

But Cam seems to know that the partnership is tattered and worn like an old flag flapping in a gale. She has seen how Booth holds himself apart; how they go about their roles at crime scenes.

Cam has had little more success at easing Booth out of his moodiness than she has had, but just a little. Like a rubber band, he stretches a bit past his sulkiness only to return to form when they are alone.

A week away from Booth has not improved his mood or her ability to deal with him. He says the obvious, "You're back," and she says nothing because, as irrational as it might sound, she doesn't feel like she left at all.

While Booth's anger is easy to identify, her own anger simmers in a box she's constructed around most of her emotions when she is working with Booth.

It's the only way she can survive this mood.

oOo

The office they are ushered into is little more than a desk and two chairs that have seen better days. "Smells Like Teen Spirit" is being piped into the sound system that cuts in and out with an irregularity that does nothing to enhance the song.

He tries to lighten the mood a bit; Brennan has been unusually quiet and he's trying to put on his game face. "Nirvana," he says pointing at the speakers.

Brennan gives him a look that mixes skepticism with confusion and is classically her own. "Nirvana is a core concept in Indian religions, a state of being thought to be free of suffering or, what the Hindus call dukkha," she recites from one of the recesses of her gigantic brain. "That music and the means by which it is being conveyed is anything but nirvana."

"The band," he corrects. "Nirvana is the band."

In a sense, she is right; the music cutting in and out as it does is painful to his ears, nothing at all like what she has described.

"Nirvana literally means _blowing out_," continues Brennan. "Hindus view it as the supreme state free of suffering and individual existence, and the Buddhists see it as the blowing out of the fires of greed, hatred and delusion."

It is as if she is deliberately ignoring his point to make hers and he feels a swell of annoyance. That annoyance becomes full-blown irritation when their interview arrives and begins to turn his full attention on Brennan. Booth can see the man's interest in his partner could be more than passing—he is in his mid-thirties, darkly handsome and well educated. Brennan is oblivious to the man's charms—_as she often is_—but that only adds to his own irritation.

Her curiosity is in full bloom and he takes them on a tour of the factory floor where the noise is enough to require the use of ear protection. They cannot talk on the floor until they get to a partitioned area. Behind glass walls they remove the earmuffs and he tests his ears on a question. "What are we doing, Bones?"

Their interview, the factory supervisor, has taken them to a final machine where plastic bits and pieces are ground up to be recycled and either used to mold the other plastic doodads, or sold to Styrofoam manufacturers.

He's not making any connections.

The grinding machine is silent, but Brennan examines it as if it is the crown jewels.

He's sure she's simply doing this for some squinty reason and his patience is low. The smell of plastics seem to have permeated everything and he's tired of the noise and the odor and the pounding of the machines. He's grateful when the supervisor sees them to the door and they emerge from the factory.

His head is throbbing.

oOo

The photos on the wall of the office provide one clue. The shredder may provide another.

Her head aches from the constant pounding of the machines and despite the ear protection, she can still hear the metallic clank of the molding machines and wants a quiet ride back to the Jeffersonian to allow the cilia in her ears to regain their former upright positions.

Booth has asked few questions, surrendering, she is sure, the _squinty_ stuff to her.

She deliberately breathes out of her nose when they exit the factory, a small attempt to dispel the small molecules of thermoplastics clinging to her nostril hairs. Her head is pounding. 

oOo

The first salvo is his.

"What the hell was that?"

It is vague and powered by his headache and his irritation, but he doesn't care. He suggested they leave while still in the supervisor's office. He suggested the same thing near the end of the tour. She finally listened to him after they were ushered into the sound-proof room where the shredder everyone called, "The Dragon," was housed.

"An investigation, Booth."

She has the power in three words to make him feel her intellectual inferior. Each word is clipped and mannered and delivered _just so_.

"And I'm the investigator."

If she is not convinced of his role, he makes his point by drawing up his full height and leaning into her. She is not wearing heels today, so he still has the advantage of several inches and he does nothing to disguise the menace in his voice.

But this is Bones. And she does not become intimidated.

"Then be the investigator."

He wants to slam his fist into her. She has the power to make him _that_ angry.

He pulls away and points a finger in her face. "You. . . ."

It is more of a growl than a word, but he's built up too many walls to breach them just yet and he starts to retreat, afraid _he is about to channel his father_ when the walls start crumbling.

"Well said, Booth."

oOo

She wants to clock him one. She is not sure where that expression came from, but it is apt and true and seconds from happening when she tries a retreat.

He growls at her, his finger just six inches from her face.

"Well said, Booth." Her voice is remarkably cool and controlled despite the roiling emotions that threaten to dissolve any control she feels. "Too bad Hannah didn't get to see this side of you."

Retreat be damned. Booth had once confessed to her that he never allowed Hannah to see some parts of himself. She knows it is one of his regrets about the relationship and she knows it is still an open wound, but she is past caring about his feelings. Angela's voice—advising patience and understanding—is strangely silent.

"She got all of me, lady. And she wanted more."

Her own regret is breached and the pain hits her full force.

And her emotions boil over.

oOo

If someone were to say they would have this fight in the middle of the visitor's parking lot of DeLandis Plastics he might not have believed it. The place has no significance to them; it is only one of the several hundred places they have visited over the years as part of their investigations.

But if the place has no significance, the words they use to punish each other do. He calls her an Ice Queen and recounts her cold indifference to him when he proposed becoming a real couple, when he went to Afghanistan, when he returned with Hannah. She calls him a liar and tells him that his promises were false fantasies spun to take advantage of her.

They pull no punches. Each word carries the emotional weight of almost a year and a half of doubt and pain and regret. They pull out every slight, every irritation, everything that they have tried to keep from the other.

Frustration and regret fuel this fight.

And love.

oOo

She tries to bloody him one more time. "What makes you think I would want to even have sex with you?" It is irrational, but nothing about this has been rational. "Hannah left you. You can't be _that_ great in bed."

"Oh, you better believe it," he thunders, his voice rising to meet hers, "I will so be your biggest regret, lady." 

Something cracks inside her. She is spent and worn and Booth looks defeated as well even as his words die around them.

She feels empty. She has no idea how her bones have not crumbled under the onslaught, but she is standing almost toe-to-toe with Booth before she stumbles back a step.

And somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind comes the one fear she has been hiding. With all the anger gone, with all the regrets unleashed, that fear has no where else to hide.

"Maybe we shouldn't be partners anymore." 


	10. What'd I say

_**What'd I Say**_**, Ray Charles**

FBI Agent Charlie Burns placed the pastry in the microwave and closed the door. Within seconds the fruit boat was slowly circling on the turntable, its deep purple goodness bubbling just behind the small window.

The local café gave the pastry a fancy literary name, _Truman Compotee, _with a hard emphasis on the last syllable. Whatever they called it, it was, in his estimation, a little bit of heaven.

They rolled out the pastry then pinched the corners together to create a sort of container then spooned in a thick, rich mixture of berries. Baked to golden perfection, the TC, as he liked to call it, came to his table steaming, crème on the side to be drizzled onto the rich fruit filling. Some mornings he would treat himself to drinking in the rich aromas wafting from the bakery as well as the gooey goodness of his TC with crème and tea on the side.

But not today. Today he had come in early to check on the information Special Agent Seeley Booth needed on the latest case: DeLandis Plastics Plant Supervisor Nathan Lloyd's connection, if any, to the victim, one Ariana Penny.

The microwave chimed and he pushed the button for the door to open. The one thing he truly appreciated about this delicacy was that it held up well to the 8.7 mile drive to the Hoover and still offered up its intoxicating scents when zapped in the microwave.

"Hey, Charlie," Mike Mikelson called, "do you have the files on the Massey counterfeit case?"

That was him, Charlie-on-the-spot. He led Mike back to the bullpen, back to his desk, and found the right folder in the pile and handed it over to the other agent.

He was more than just one of the boys in the bullpen. He was an information specialist. Ask him to locate some info, and he did it.

It was his gift.

That gift gave him the leg up to be one of the few who regularly worked with Special Agent Booth. His ability to dig for information had earned him a spot on Booth's team.

Now there was an FBI agent.

The man was legendary for his ability to handle Dr. Brennan. For many of the years he'd worked with Agent Booth, Charlie had thought Dr. Brennan to be little more than a cold fish that the special agent had found a way to thaw. Whatever their relationship now, Charlie had long since abandoned the thought that the woman was emotionless. The day he had seen her hovering outside Booth's office while the agent was inside with the blonde beauty he had imported from Afghanistan had disabused him of _that_ idea.

Her look had been anything but emotionless.

Before he could bite into his pastry, his computer beeped, signaling a new email. This one he processed by typing in the email address and forwarding it to an agent out of New York.

He was efficient. 

The fruit beckoned and he indulged himself in its sweetness while scanning through the results of his outstanding searches.

His computer beeped again with another email. Joe Creedy. The man was always looking for some betting action; Charlie wondered if the man had an addiction to gambling. But the man knew better than to use the company's email to set up a new betting pool. The last one was juicy enough and probably enough to get him hospitalized if Agent Booth had heard about it. Dr. Brennan had been the odds-on favorite in a catfight between the forensic anthropologist and the journalist.

He hadn't taken any of that action. That day Dr. Brennan had almost walked in on Agent Booth playing tonsil hockey with Hannah Burley had been an eye-opener. Dr. Brennan had looked crushed.

He imagined any woman who had had the exclusive rights to Agent Booth one minute only to lose those rights to another—and another that the good agent could openly have a relationship with—that _had_ to rankle.

But Agent Booth had been able to break it off with Dr. Brennan in such a way that helped maintain his relationship with the good doctor and with the Jeffersonian.

The man was legendary.

He finished off the last bits of his pastry, savoring the rich mixture of berries, when the search he'd been conducting for Agent Booth finished. He read the information and tried to see the connections that the lead agent might make. That was the mark of a good agent—always making connections.

And he was, if anything, a good agent. 

He dialed the number on his landline and waited as the ringing pulsed once, then twice. By the third ring he wondered idly if he could condense the information down to a 30-second burst for voice mail when Agent Booth answered.

He made the most of the call.

"Plant Supervisor Nathan Lloyd's credit card statement shows charges for a bed and breakfast in North Carolina over the weekend. . . ," he filled in the information with the smallest number of words needed. Agent Booth valued efficiency on his team. "That weekend coincides with the time he claimed to have been on a team-building conference for the company in New York City."

There was barely a pause on the other line. "Good work, Charlie."

It was praise almost as delicious as the pastry.

"Records indicate that both Lloyd and Penny were to have been at that conference but neither was there." He knew the next bit of information sealed his value to their team. "Lloyd claimed family illness and Penny noted that she had transportation problems."

I'm good, he thought, as the other line was silent.

"Apparently Lloyd and Penny were doing their own kind of team building."

It was the line that Agent Booth appreciated. Information delivered with a flourish of ironic insight.

He waited.

"Good, Charlie. Good."

The click on the other line was satisfying. _What'd I say?_ thought Charlie. _I am that man's main man._


	11. My Generation

**My Generation, The Who**

"Maybe we shouldn't be partners anymore."

The words were enough to drive the fight out of him if he hadn't already slammed his opponent with everything he had.

"You don't mean that," he scratched out. "Tell me you don't mean that."

He couldn't read her expression. She was clearly distressed, but the mixture of emotions eluded him. And then his phone chirped. Then hers.

But they remained frozen a beat longer. Then another.

And his damned phone chirped again.

Then hers.

She fished hers from the pocket of her coat. "Brennan."

He reached for his.

Charlie Burns chattered in his ear and that part of his brain still functioning processed it.

He thanked Charlie or wished him a Happy Hanukkah or something.

She was still talking. "Ask Mr. Nigel-Murray to measure the. . . ."

He half-listened. He had learned enough over the years to have a fair understanding of what she was talking about. But nothing quite registered.

Nothing except, "Maybe we shouldn't be partners anymore."

oOo

He ushered her into the SUV seconds before the skies unleashed the rain that had been threatening all morning. She was still on the phone to the lab, her face a mask of concentration.

She thoughtfully pulled the umbrella from his seat before he slid in.

"Thanks, Cam."

She turned off her phone then leaned her head against the window. "Cam's tests show that Ariana Penny was pregnant. The size of the ground up pieces suggest that the body could have been shredded. . . ."

". . . In that dragon thingy," he finished.

It took a beat for him to realize that her voice had been drained of inflection something she did when she was tired.

Or defeated.

"We should get a warrant. . . ."

". . . To examine that shredder for blood and tissue." He already was dialing Caroline's number.

He watched the rain blanket the windshield, distorting objects into small prisms of color that held and then ran down the glass. He supplied the information for Caroline, peppered by additions from Brennan.

When he finished the call, he glanced over at the woman beside him. Her eyes seemed unfocused and the shimmer of light through the raindrops made her face look awash in tears.

But he knew it was only the light playing tricks.

"Please don't make a decision yet," he said as gently as he could. "Please."

"I won't, Booth."

The rain continued to beat against the truck sending up a thunderous roar before subsiding into a steady rhythm.

He could hear her sigh as her eyes remained on something distant outside the vehicle.

Perhaps Sweets had been right months ago. They'd missed their chance and when presented with a second chance and a third they only knew how to punish one another.

"I don't know," she said softly, her voice low. "Do we even like one another anymore?"

oOo

Years ago he had learned the value of a good partnership.

And the agony when everything was shot to hell.

He'd lost more than one partner on the battlefield and he had sworn by all the saints he could name that he would never put himself into that position again.

Until a certain forensic anthropologist with a penchant for seeking the truth and a hyper literal approach to the world entered his life.

And he had come to value their partnership.

It had become worn and tattered of late. Hell, he had taken it for granted in the last several months. Maybe they both had.

For a long time he had thought it was ultimately his decision as to whether they would remain partners. It had been reinforced that night on the steps outside the Hoover. He had granted her rights to their partnership—but at his discretion. He had used Sweets more and her less because he had judged her as being less. He had separated the investigation into her part and his part rather than their whole. He had ignored her awkward quips and squinty observations meant to elicit a reaction from him that would reassure her that he was still with her in the center.

And all he had been doing was pushing her off to the side.

"Bones," he said as the rain sputtered against the windshield and a black sedan pulled up next to the SUV, "I like you just fine."

He just wasn't sure about how he felt about himself.

oOo

Nathan Lloyd swung the pipe at his head and had he not ducked, Parker would have been less one parent.

The man was eluding them handily, sending Brennan sprawling into a pile of boxes while he waved that damned pipe like he was some sort of Ninja warrior.

He was almost hoping for an Indiana Jones' moment: maniac makes with weapon in fancy show of his artistic superiority while our hero waits him out, pulls out his gun and zaps the poor sap.

But that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. Lloyd had surprised them both, a hard blow to his right wrist with that pipe sending the gun tumbling down a flight of stairs and leaving his arm buzzing as he clutched at the guardrail for support.

Brennan had aimed a kick at Lloyd's leg, catching the back of his knee and bringing him down. But he hadn't lost his grip on that damned pipe which he slashed at her legs. Normally, she was much more graceful, but in trying to avoid the arc of the pipe, she stumbled over her feet and landed with a thud on her butt.

And then he was off and they were off and the chase took them along the catwalk running between the molding machines and down a flight of stairs into a warehouse area where towers of boxes hid him from sight.

But not for long. Brennan caught sight of him at almost the same moment he did and the chase was on again.

The pain in his arm went from a screaming buzz to a throbbing ache and his fingers refused to do anything but hang uselessly from his hand.

They'd gone down separate aisles in that warehouse when he heard Brennan's distinctive scream, "Booth, duck."

His body reacted and he felt the rush of air around him and the whooshing sound as the pipe slashed at him. And he saw Brennan tumbling into a stack of boxes. Lloyd was swinging the pipe wide and hard and each swipe seemed to sing against the air.  
Then he was on her and while she was able to regain her feet, she was stumbling badly. He caught her with a glancing blow on her leg sending her hard to the concrete. Another swipe landed wide, but just close enough to terrorize her.

She was scrambling hard to get away, to stand up, to dodge the attack when he found himself at Lloyd's rear, a large wheeled bin between him and the plant supervisor. He saw the flash of the metal swing upward when he jammed the bin forward hard and felt the satisfying thud of a heavy body fall inside.

The pipe clattered uselessly on the concrete floor.

He practically slid to where she was, half-kneeling on the floor.

"Are you all right, Bones?" he asked as he helped her to her feet.

"Yeah," she rasped. "Are you?"

Almost instantly she had captured his right wrist in her hands and gently began to probe the flesh feeling for the bones beneath. "Yeah, I think so," he said as she tested each finger.

The wrist was oddly colored and somehow the fingers seemed to belong to someone else because they didn't seem to work for him.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked again.

She nodded absently, her attention solely on his injury. Her fingers seemed to trace each bone from his wrist to the end point of each finger. "It's broken," she pronounced.

"Can you. . . ?" he cocked his head in the direction of his pocket and she fished out his cell phone and handed it to him. He tried to manage with his left hand, but his fingers felt leaden. "Could you? Speed dial three."

She took the phone from his hand and found the menu when she paused. Lloyd was thrashing in the bin and the plant's horrid sound system was trying to spit out another song.

"Do you have it?" he asked and looked over her arm at the menu.

She had paused at the speed dial menu. At number one was Parker. At number two was Bones.

She punched in the number then handed it to his left hand.

He gave their location to the dispatcher and watched as the bin shook with Lloyd's efforts to escape. The bin was deep and narrow and while not escape-proof, it was a deterrent.

Ending the call, he slipped the phone into his left pocket. Then he slipped down and located his ankle holster which he unsnapped. The movement jarred his head and his back and he quickly pulled the pistol from the holster and handed it to Brennan.

To her surprised look, he merely shrugged and offered, "If he moves, shoot to kill."

He had deliberately raised his voice and the movement in the bin ceased from quakes to tremors.

She gave him a look. "You're not serious, are you?" she asked.

"I need to sit down for a minute," he said as he sank to the concrete floor. On the floor his head didn't feel better, but as he watched Brennan sink down beside him, he could see the jagged cut Lloyd had made in her jeans and the darkening stain around it.

"You okay?" he asked again, this time pointing toward the injury.

She nodded tiredly and said nothing.

The sound system was sending out a song in a chaotic Morse code-like manner. He listened for some pattern to tell him what they were being tortured with.

"'My Generation,'" he said finally.

"The Who."

"The Who?" He turned to her. "You know The Who?"

It was one of her classic takes. "The Who, along with The Rolling Stones and The Beatles, are considered to be the holy trinity of British rock."

"Wow," was all he could say.

"I do have a wide and somewhat catholic appreciation for music."

"Catholic?" This felt like familiar ground. "It's 'My Generation.' It's not about religion. Don't make this about religion."

"I don't mean catholic as in religion," she explained, "I mean catholic as in uni. . . ." She paused and he could feel her eyes on him. "You're teasing."

He grinned. _It was_ _familiar territory._ He looked at her. Their wild pursuit had left her bangs plastered to her forehead and a black smudge across her nose.

"How's your leg?"

She sighed and glanced down at it. The gun was propped up between her knees and she held it steady in Lloyd's direction.

"I might need a couple of stitches," she said. "But it's mostly a flesh wound." She paused. "How's your wrist?"

"Broken," he offered as he tried to move his fingers. They responded slightly. "At least that's what the good doctor tells me."

The sound system was trying to cough out another song when he decided he'd rested enough. His head was going to ache a while longer and his wrist would probably need a cast, but those injuries were slight.

"Are we going to be okay, Bones?"

He directed his question toward the bin, wary of her answer. It's large white letters spelled out its purpose: TRASH. The word itself seemed significant, but it did not register in his mind.

The seconds weighed down on him, but he waited.

He reminded himself that it took her mere microseconds to process some things while emotions required minutes if not hours to make sense to her.

"Yeah," she said finally. "I think so."

The knot in his gut loosened. "I think so, too."

He caught her eyes with his and he could read the wariness, the shyness. Cam had once accused him of taking one step forward, two steps backward when it came to Temperance Brennan and he wondered if there was ever a way to reverse the trend.

All he knew was how to take one step at a time.

He nudged her with his shoulder, "C'mon," he said as he scrambled awkwardly to his feet and held out his hand to her, "let's take out the trash."


	12. A Change is Gonna Come

_**A Change Is Gonna Come**_**, Sam Cooke**

Dr. Camille Saroyan: _Herder of Cats._

She expected that phrase on her tombstone. Running the Medico-Legal Lab at the Jeffersonian was a premiere job—what the government did not provide, private benefactors did. Her budget for the year, something Third World nations could only aspire to, had been green-lighted with hardly a hesitation.

Well, there was one slight hesitation. Dr. Winkler, the finances chairman on the board, who was just about to scrawl his name on her budget submission, a tacit agreement to write them a blank check in their pursuit of felons and miscreants as well as scholarly research, had hesitated just momentarily and asked if Dr. Temperance Brennan was still happy in her capacity at the Jeffersonian.

She did not really know how to answer that question.

Somehow she had choked out something about the forensic anthropologist's satisfaction with her job, beamed a 1000-watt smile in his direction, and sashayed from the meeting with hardly a hint of discord.

And walking back to the Autopsy Lab, she still did not know how to answer the question.

Certainly there had been any number of changes in people's lives and seven months apart had only amplified those changes. Angela and Jack had settled into domestic bliss, the public displays of affection turning from tight clinches and sloppy kisses to tender moments of beaming smiles and whispered confidences. The interns had grown bolder under the indomitable Dr. Brennan, demanding her attention, questioning her findings, forging their own directions.

For her part, Cam had tested the waters with Paul and while their relationship was solid in its own way, it was spotty at best. Their schedules seemed to be constantly out of sync as if the universe had some other plan for them. Her best friend each night was still a good, trashy novel.

And then there was Booth.

She allowed that the man had a right to his happiness and Hannah had certainly seemed to be a good match for him.

But that relationship had imploded and now he seemed the same angry young man she knew the first time he had left the Army.

And Brennan? What about the biggest cat of all?

She had tried more than once to corral the woman, chastise her for taking off to Maluku, warn her about taking out her frustrations over Booth's love life on the interns. She hadn't given the woman any slack; her first duty was to the Jeffersonian.

Just as it should be.

But she knew something was seriously wrong between the partners.

The biggest cat, the most unwieldy, had just returned from an unscheduled vacation with her brother's family only to be thrown back into a case with Booth upon her return. Now Cam was not prone to panic attacks, but the anthropologist's impromptu vacation had caused her to wake up several nights during that week worried that Brennan would take off for Llasa-Llasa land to study ancient remains and leave her to try to hold the lab together.

She had tried to calm her fears with an after-work drink with Booth, but that had only proved to deepen her concern.

"_You tell me that 'things are fine' in that tone of voice that suggests things most definitely are not fine."_

_She didn't pull any punches. She'd blithely ignored the signs at the Jeffersonian once before and had lost her state-of-the-art lab. She refused to be blind-sided again._

"_Are you gambling again?"_

_That had sparked a look that reminded her of a trapped animal._

"_No, Camille, I am definitely not gambling. Definitely not gambling."_

The hard emphasis on the _"not gambling" _had sent up a red flag, but when she had tried to coax something more out of him, the man had proved to be stubborn.

And snarky.

Over the years Cam had been witness to the quirky, the awkward and the combustible conversations between the partners, but the last crime scene investigation had opened up an entirely new chapter. Like automatons, the partners went about their business with a silence so deep she felt she might actually drown in it. Booth looked pained and addressed Brennan with such utter coolness at last, she feared the anthropologist might take the tibia she was examining and brain the man with it.

When she did look at Brennan to gauge her reaction and how far away she needed to stand to avoid the cat's claws, she saw something she didn't expect.

Pain.

oOo

Sitting at her computer, Cam ran through the last emails of the day and wondered idly if she should update her resume. She wondered if she could find a good position in Maine, close to Michelle, close to a Home Depot where she could scour the aisles for cheaper versions of the autopsy tools she'd need. It wouldn't be the first time she had used a Dremel to open up the skull of a victim and given the current circumstances, it just might not be the last. A courier interrupted her musing, delivering Dr. Brennan's travel papers- signed with a flourish by Dr. Winkler himself.

First-class treatment for their star cat. A week at the Royal Academy of Sciences in London followed by a whisking off to somewhere-nowhere at the behest of Homeland Security to identify the remains of god-knows-who-or-how-important-he-is-to-national-security.

She didn't begrudge the woman the trip. Nor the Jeffersonian's almost _carte blanche_ approach to financing her forays overseas. For each set of luxury accommodations in a European hotel or domestic inn, the woman probably put in as much time dust-covered in squalid camps or knee-deep in human carnage.

No. The cat needed something to stroke her ego and give her a sense of her worth these days because that other cat, brawny and brown-eyed, had given up that job long ago.

She could count on one hand the number of times Booth had graced the lab with his presence.

The partners were just not working well with each other.

So for ten days, ten days without the awkward crime scenes, Dr. Clark, definitely _a cat of a different breed,_ could fill in.

She sighed. Maybe this was how things should be. The partners on opposite shores.

Watching them together was just too painful.

Gathering up the travel documents and test results on the latest case, she headed toward Brennan's office. Her heels clicked decisively against the floor. In the emptying lab, they seemed to echo in the large chamber.

Well, _Moonbase Alpha_—as Tim Sullivan has once dubbed it—was largely deserted. The few tardy lab technicians, heads down and scurrying, tried to evade the determined rhythm of her Jimmy Choos. One, a kitten of sorts, actually stopped her for a signature and she asked about the girl's mother who had been battling with an avalanche of health concerns. As she talked with the girl, she checked the status of Brennan's office. Usually the first lit in the morning and the last to go dark at night, it still blazed light in the gathering gloom of the lab.

The girl seemed to purr her appreciation for Cam's interest in her mother, and stepped away feeling less anonymous in the great science lab.

Cam knew she was good at her job.

The interaction with the girl gave a lilt to her step and a renewed sense of determination to ease the gulf between her friends. Would going to Sweets with her concerns be a violation of that friendship?

She'd gone before to Sweets for advice about others on her staff, even Hodgins and Angela and whatever _intern du jour_ was burrowing under her skin that week. But with Booth and Brennan, she never had, not really. They were different somehow.

They always seemed to right themselves. To twist and turn and land on their feet no matter what.

Just not lately.

She sighed, wondering if this little hit-and-run she was going to do should be more. Rather than just dropping by and dropping off the paperwork, maybe she could talk to Brennan. Offer to help her put together the prosecutor's packet for Caroline. Bring her coffee for the long night.

She sighed again.

Making the turn into the office, she scanned the room and found the forensic anthropologist at one end of the couch, the paperwork arranged in neat piles across the floor and on the seats of chairs. The middle of the coffee table held an assortment of Chinese take-out containers in various stages of use.

And in the middle of the couch sat Seeley Booth.

"Seeley," she said, trying to keep the surprise from her voice, "how's the arm?"

He shrugged and half-waved with the cast-covered wrist. "It'll be good as new in 6 weeks," he said.

"Actually," Brennan started, "in this case your wrist will actually be stronger at the point of the break, but given that you've already sustained. . . ."

"It'll be fine, Bones," he interrupted gently and speared an egg roll on his fork from the plate he had perched on the table. "I just meant it will heal and it will be fine." He grinned.

"I just meant it technically won't be as good as new, Booth."

And that was that. No rancor. No snippiness.

The cats were playing nicely once again.

Cam made her delivery and said her goodbyes and left Brennan's office with a new rhythm to her step. This conversation between the partners wasn't quirky or awkward or combustible.

But it was just progress.

As she turned the corner to her own office to retrieve her own purse and coat, she couldn't help but think, "A change is gonna come. A change is gonna come."


	13. Yesterday

**Yesterday, The Beatles**

She woke early before the alarm sounded and lay in the warm embrace of her bed.

Something had changed yesterday.

One moment she had wanted to smash the skull of her partner and the next it seemed she was preventing their suspect, Nathan Lloyd, from doing just that.

Temperance Brennan checked the time and did a quick calculation. She had more than three hours to get ready for the meeting with Caroline Julian at the Hoover. Sliding her hand to her thigh, she felt for the tender skin near the three stitches before sliding up her thigh to the bruise at her hip.

Yesterday had been tumultuous emotionally and physically. Angela had warned her that she might need to "clear the air" with Booth, but she had never thought they would do so just minutes after interviewing a suspect.

She had never thought it would go so far.

Her words had taken them to the very brink of severing their partnership. And she did not trust they were not still at the precipice hovering between stepping away from the edge or jumping and severing all ties.

Glancing at the clock again, she decided to make use of the early hour and unfolded herself gingerly from her bed. Her limbs were stiff, in part, she knew, from the hard falls she had taken in trying to elude Lloyd.

She paused at the edge of her bed, frozen in place trying to understand the full impact of everything that had happened in the last 24 hours.

They had saved each other's lives yesterday. They had done what they had to do like a dozen times before.

But she did not know if they had it in them to do it again.

No, correction, she thought. She did not know if she had it in her again.

oOo

He lowered himself into the tub and felt the blessed relief of warm water on achy muscles.

"Hans Solo," he thought, "the Force is still great in you."

And the aches were as well.

Seeley Booth had crawled into bed last night with a couple of fingers of good malt whiskey. Bone weary, he had let the alcohol do its magic and transport him into a blessed haze.

The ache in his wrist woke him early and he had debated about getting up and calling Bones for breakfast.

He was still debating, frankly. Yesterday she'd made him so angry. . . . Then she'd wound up and verbally smacked him hard where it would hurt the most and those were really the bruises he was dealing with today.

Only twice before had he seen her so angry with him and both times she had physically hit him.

All things being equal, he thought, as he let the warm water smooth away the hard edges of his sore muscles, he much preferred the bruising from a physical attack. Always seemed to hurt much less in the end.

oOo

As she made her way to the shower, she paused to check her reflection in the mirror.

The small bruise she'd earned from the unforgiving edge of one of the boxes had cropped up next to her left eye. In a few days the purple hues would fade and become what Booth called, "another war wound," something she could embellish upon to make greater than it was.

But she had never understood the need to make something greater than it was; things were what they were. To embellish upon the facts only made them a lie.

That was why she did not trust the Booth who had come to the Jeffersonian last night with an offering of Thai and a sheepish smile, intent on making their paperwork less by putting both their abilities to it.

She knew from the months of doing her share of the paperwork that it went much faster alone.

Something had snapped within her yesterday and she wasn't entirely sure if she trusted Booth more or herself less. Or even if it was a matter of trust. Something had changed. The low-simmering anger had boiled over and since had been displaced by a low-simmering doubt.

And something else. 

Setting the temperature on her shower, she waited a minute before stripping off her robe and pajamas and wrapping her thigh in three layers of plastic wrap.

On a whim last night she had chosen a brightly colored green wrap rather than the clear variety and had carried her purchase to the grocery counter, secretly pleased for some reason.

She had been doing things like that of late.

As the water cascaded around her, she twisted to allow the warmth to target her bruises. While it wasn't exactly 24 hours from the moment she had sustained the injuries and she knew that was the optimum time to apply heat to allow the capillaries to open and reabsorb the displaced blood, the warmth still felt good.

She stretched and twisted under the spray to loosen her muscles before taking up her shampoo bottle and measuring out a small amount.

The warmth of the water could alleviate several aches.

Save one.

That one had been difficult to wash away or even completely compartmentalize. It ached like the small swelling at her eye or the bruise at her hip- it remained negligible until something happened to remind her of its presence.

And the fight with Booth hadn't erased it.

It only seemed to make her ache more.

oOo

It was his fault.

He stared at the face in the mirror and wondered if he had realized that more than a year ago they might have avoided this mess.

It was his fault.

He'd wanted too much too fast—_for her_—and he'd made decisions fueled by wounded pride and his libido.

Yesterday she had gotten in a few good shots. Hell, she had nailed him.

He could start with Hannah and move backwards, but in the end the truth was that he could have handled everything better.

Or could he?

Poised with his razor just inches from his face, he stared at his reflection and tried to understand what had gone wrong so many months ago that put them squarely in. . . in what really?

_Limbo?_

That felt like being back to square one.

Seemingly the fight had wiped away months of hurt and anger. . . but they hadn't really talked. And maybe it was like his morning beard. He could scrape away at the new growth every morning, but. . . no. Bones could come up with a good analogy, he thought. Some squinty thing that would explain that they'd just wiped away a fraction of the pain they were both feeling, but they hadn't really taken care of the root of the problem.

They were stuck in limbo.

God, he felt like he was back in high school trying to sort through the crap in his head.

Staring into the mirror, his reflection held only questions.

oOo

She was to blame.

Fear had been her worst enemy over the years. She had crafted a tale of two nightclub owners years ago to read to a comatose Booth in order to stave off the fear he would never awaken. Her fear had fed Booth's imagination, had given him the hope- as false as it was at the time- that she wanted them to be a couple. And her fear of them being a couple, that fear she had voiced on the steps of the Hoover, had sent them stumbling down this path.

She understood the root causes and effects. She understood her part in everything. The evidence was clear. Angela had helped her understand her role in the disintegration of her relationship with Booth.

She was to blame.

Her greatest fear, the fear that had driven her from her bed and caused her to lean heavily against the wall of her shower as she tried to sort through the crush of emotions, was that she had ruined _them_.

And more than anything- more than the bruises she'd earned yesterday, more than the metaphorical bruises she'd sustained in the fight with Booth- that hurt in a way she could only describe to be heart crushing.

oOo

Yesterday should have taught him something. He knew the lesson remained elusively out of his grasp as he tried to make his tie behave. But the fingers of his broken wrist remained stiff and wooden and he tossed the one tie aside and looked for something else to wear.

He was still more than an hour away from the meeting at the Hoover, yet he wanted desperately to call Bones and suggest breakfast—even coffee—if only to reassure himself that yesterday was not some sort of strange anomaly. After everything, she had accepted his presence at the Jeffersonian, had accepted his food offering, had accepted him without question although he could read a kind of wariness in her eyes.

He'd been a right bastard toward her in some respects. She had nailed him on those points. He had pushed and pulled at her, certain he wanted something from her now that Hannah was gone and uncertain if he wanted to go down that road again.

Of two minds, Jared might say. Cognitive dissonance, Sweets would call it.

Being a damned fool, Hank would tell him.

He huffed and swiped at a tie at the end of the rack that was still knotted, then sighed as the irony wasn't lost on him. It was his lucky 7 tie, the one with the dice rolling at the bottom coming up a winner no matter what. Along with his Cocky belt buckle, he'd relegated it to the back of the closet, his small symbols of rebellion against a homogenizing organization such as the FBI lost as he tried to distance himself more and more from his partner.

Once he had worn those little emblems as a means to stand out, to prove to her he was different. And once he had put them in the back of his closet, certain that fitting it and taking an easier path was the best route with Hannah.

He stared at the tie for a moment before he slipped it over his head.

oOo

Yesterday was yesterday, she tried to tell herself. Today is today.

But she couldn't get yesterday out of her head.

The clock still indicated she had more than an hour before her appointment. Try as she might, snippets of their fight kept filtering into her thoughts, distracting her from the mental lists she was trying to use to sidetrack herself from thinking too much about Booth.

She was stuck in an endless loop of trying to make sense of things that made little sense to her. Why had she proposed they end their partnership when she feared just such a thing? Why had she told Booth she thought they didn't like one another when it was obvious that she wouldn't have spent any time with him if that were true?

Angela had once told her that love sometimes claimed one's head as well as one's heart and held it hostage. Try as she might, she wasn't exactly sure what Angela meant.

"Love is an idiot," she said aloud.

It made as much sense as anything.

She gave up on putting together a breakfast and reached for her phone. On the second ring she heard his greeting and launched into an invitation of sorts.

"Booth," she said, her brain warring with the logical illogic of what she was doing, "do you want to meet at the diner for breakfast?"


	14. Blowin' in the wind

_**Blowin' in the Wind:**_** Bob Dylan**

Caroline Julian huffed.

And she puffed.

And she scowled as her voice dripped with undiluted sarcasm.

"Let me get this straight," she drawled, "your client assaults a federal agent and an FBI consultant in the performance of their duties after killing his business partner slash girlfriend, grinding her up like hamburger and trying to feed her to animals at the Washington Zoo. . . ."

"I didn't mean to. . . ," the attorney interrupted.

". . . And you think that there's some sort of 5-minute rule that when said FBI agent and lady scientist don't show up on time," she deliberately honed a sharper edge to her tone, "your client gets to go home? Scott free?"

The man had the good sense to cower.

Caroline Julian surveyed the room. Dr. Camille Saroyan was trying—_unsuccessfully, mind you_—to suppress a smile. Dr. Lance Sweets had the look of someone who had been ingesting too many lemons.

The kid genius had to work on his serious look.

Caroline Julian huffed.

And she puffed.

And she scowled at the sight of said FBI agent and his scientist partner entering the conference room.

Dr. Temperance Brennan sported a bruise near her left eye while Agent Seeley Booth held the door open for her with his left hand, his right hand in a white cast wrapped in red which the prosecutor could only assume was the color of the man's favorite hockey team.

And he sported something else.

Next to his standard-issue FBI white shirt against a dark blue suit, the man was wearing a hand-painted tie.

With dice.

And at that moment, Caroline Julian's heart sank.

oOo

Caroline Julian could read people.

Years ago she had read one Seeley Joseph Booth as an honorable man with good instincts and a strong sense of justice. A man she could like because he always wanted to do the right thing.

And a man she had trouble liking because he had little patience for dotting the i's and crossing the t's.

She had wondered if he'd ever move past his pretty boy habits of relying on charm and guts to make his cases. Too many pretty boys fizzled out, never went beyond the bullpen because they could never quite get past themselves. She knew the rumors—the gambling, the on-again off-again thing with the mother of his boy—and she knew the facts of the man—ex-Army, former sniper.

She could read people. But she could also read reports.

Put him together with this Dr. Brennan who was incredibly good at making sense of the scientific mumbo jumbo and incredibly bad at making sense of people and somehow the man who was merely ordinary became extraordinary.

No more standard-issue FBI Seeley Booth. The new and improved Seeley Booth wore a cocky belt buckle, striped socks, sneakers.

And wild ties.

He had his own identity to go with that charm and instinct. He was one of the best, a head above all the others in the bullpen. And he owed a great deal of that to his ability to harness his little squint squad. Taking a squint out into the field was definitely not standard-issue FBI but he made it work.

And watching them together was like watching some kind of Kabuki theater with their long-simmering looks and weird ability to read each other's minds and finish each other's sentences.

Caroline Julian liked Seeley Booth. And she did not, as a general rule, like many people.

She liked Temperance Brennan. Some days more than others.

The woman had a stainless steel backbone. She'd seen the scientist make huge sacrifices for her father and for her partner and never once blink. And she was dogged in her pursuit of the truth.

She liked that about the woman.

Together, their rate of successful prosecutions was in the mid-90s. From boy wonder psychologist to egghead world-class scientist, the marriage of the FBI and the Jeffersonian was almost unbeatable.

So it about broke her heart to see Seeley Booth take off for Afghanistan and Dr. Brennan to take off for Indonesia while the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal Lab was broken up like a household in a divorce.

And she was afraid they were headed for another disaster.

oOo

"When I say 9:15 a.m. sharp, I mean 9:15 sharp. Not five minutes this side or that."

The glass door had barely closed before she began her tirade. Booth seemed, well, Booth. But Dr. Brennan, stickler for the rules and keeper of all things rational looked positively wounded.

_Good_, thought Caroline.

"Caroline, I told you," Booth started, "we stopped in my office to get the. . . ."

"I don't care if you were stopping for take-out for the whole damned floor." She rose to her full height—more than a head shorter than either of the people she was berating—and after a glance at the offending tie, leveled her gaze at the good doctor.

"You're supposed to be flying over to England to peruse some ancient remains or some such nonsense day after next."

"Yes," Brennan said, drawing out the single syllable, confusion evident on her face. "It's more than peruse, I'm assisting the Royal Academy of Sciences in an examination of a set of ancient remains that was discovered in Tunisia last month."

"And this is not one of those instances where you say you're going for a few days and are planning to stay an entire year?"

Brennan glanced at Booth before answering. "No."

"Then Homeland Security plans on whisking you away for the better part of a week to identify God-knows-who-from-God-knows-where."

"You're not supposed to know that," Brennan protested.

"I'm a federal prosecutor." Caroline felt herself in full offensive mode; she was going in for the kill. "When one of my cases gets postponed because one of my expert witnesses is not available, I know a great deal more than some agencies would like to think." She shifted her weight and stepped toward Brennan. "I need to know, cherie, that you are planning on giving the Jeffersonian and this team your full attention and that you aren't planning on throwing it all aside, letting it all go blowin' in the wind for some old moldy set of skeletons someplace in the wilds of England."

The scientist shifted, clearly uncomfortable. But that stainless steel backbone held firm. She looked toward Booth before she turned her attention back to Caroline. "My life is here," she said.

Caroline sized her up. The woman did not flinch, but held her gaze. "Good, cherie. Just so we're clear on our priorities. Those people," she cocked her head toward Drs. Saroyan and Sweets who were waiting outside the conference room on the other side of the glass, "are part of your team, your family, if you will. And the decisions you make affect them."

Caroline expected some protest from the woman, but Brennan said nothing, just exchanged looks with Booth.

For his part, Booth had the temerity to stand apart as if his appearance—_that damned tie_— hadn't started Caroline's attempt to prevent another crippling mass exodus from the Jeffersonian.

"You can shoo now." She waved her hand dismissively and looked archly at Booth. "I need to talk to this one."

If her entire demeanor toward Dr. Brennan earlier hadn't registered some kind of protest, her attempt to transition from one partner to the other did. Both Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth began to voice their objections, but Caroline simply glared.

Dr. Brennan left the room looking somewhat like a scolded child, but Caroline Julian didn't much care if she had hurt the woman's feelings as long as she'd made her point.

"What's this?" she asked as she pointed at the tie. She could see the trio of doctors milling outside the window. "Are you thinking of getting back on this merry-go-round?"

"What?"

Caroline Julian would never have thought Seeley Booth to be a stupid man, but at that moment she seriously questioned his intelligence.

"You know what I mean."

That body, broad shoulders and all, shifted. She could tell he was working the muscles of his jaw. And when his one good hand went to his pocket, she plunged right in.

"I hope you aren't thinking of playing musical chairs again here, Seeley Booth."

If she could have slapped the look off his face and slapped some sense into the man, she would have done so.

"Let me spell it out for you, cherie." She stepped into his personal space. "Do not make a half-assed attempt here," she cocked a finger at him. "If you are going to commit to taking a chair when the music stops, then go all the hell in."

"And you take your lady scientist with you."

Then Caroline Julian huffed.

And she puffed.

And she blew her way past Booth, the good doctors three and onto the elevator before she dropped the scowl from her face.

"I just hope to hell you two know what you're doing," she said to no one in particular as the elevator doors closed.


	15. London Calling

_**London Calling: **_**The Clash**

This was a waiting game.

He toyed with the beer bottle in front of him, his fingernail flicking at the edge of the label. In front of him he had a clear line of sight toward the entrance and to his side, a straight shot to the bar.

What else could a man want?

Oh, yeah. The willowy blonde he was supposed to meet here.

Clash T-shirt and tattered jeans were high fashion compared to the attire of the other bar patrons.

The others? Shadowy figures in this place where the best lighting, the only lighting, came from scavenged beer signs lining the walls. Years of human misery had plastered the place in a kind of murky grey. Here and there pockets of people seemed lost in murmurs of alcohol-fueled conversations.

This was the game. Wait.

He tapped his right wrist against the table, the sound of the plaster cast against the wood sounding dull against the clinks of glasses in the background and the tinny jukebox in the corner. Just a few days in and the skin under the cast was beginning to itch. The tapping seemed to relieve the itchiness if only to put skin into firmer contact with the cast for a moment.

Everything seemed to be about waiting. A five-week wait for the cast to come off. A week before the big game. Two hours. . . no, make that two and a half hours. . . waiting on the blonde.

He hoped she was worth the wait.

He wiggled the fingers of his right hand. Less stiffness. Little pain. Bones had been right about the fracture.

But _that was_ her specialty; she knew bones.

He stopped the tapping and laid the arm on the table. He picked up the warm beer bottle and tapped that once against the table before taking a long pull on his drink.

Wait. Kill time. Time? He glanced at his watch. She had a half hour more of his time before he was calling it.

Tall, blonde, willowy. Former fashion model turned exotic dancer turned. . . . He glanced up and saw her.

The pictures didn't lie.

Her features were striking even in the murkiness of the bar. He leaned back in his chair, which squeaked in protest, and waved her to him.

Her figure got lost in the dark and despair of the place, but as she closed in on his position, he saw that even the darkest shadows of the place seemed to notice her.

She was hard not to notice.

Maybe she wore a bit too much makeup, especially around the eyes, but the high cheekbones and way she swung her hips sent up flares that she wasn't just another anonymous woman looking to drown her sorrows in this place.

She was looking to drown a man in her.

The halter top cradled her breasts and provided a lengthy invitation to gawk. Booth stood up. She, who seemed designed to unnerve a man, appeared slightly taken aback. "You Booth?"

He nodded. "Tracy Lord?"

"Yeah," she said as she slid into the seat across from him. "This has got to be quick."

Booth flashed her a smile. "Let me get you a drink. A quick one."

She crossed her arms on the table and leaned those breasts on top giving him no doubt what her intentions were. "In this place," she said, her eyes flickering just a bit, "make it bottled."

He took the few steps to the bar, placed his order, and looked around.

Nothing much had changed since he'd come into the place. Mostly the shadows were pretty consistent—people looking for escape, for talk, for connection. Shadows moved in and out under the lit beer logos connecting briefly before separating and finding other shadows to merge with.

"Nine bucks."

Booth put a ten on the bar and waved off the change. People paid a premium for the privilege of hanging in the shadows. He caught both bottles with his left hand and headed back.

Long blonde locks curtained her back which was mostly bare and seemed to have been a canvas for some mad tattoo artist. His route back gave him another view of the artistry of the tattoo scribe and Mother Nature who simply did not stint on this woman.

"It was a good year," he said, setting down the bottles in front of her and sliding back into his seat. "A fine vintage," he smirked. "2010."

"I didn't expect you." He watched as her eyes took their own route over him. "This isn't your kind of place."

"Best kind of place for this," he said as he slid his bottle toward him along the tabletop. The perspiration on the beer bottle left a wet trail. He tapped the bottle against the table before bringing it to his lips. "Best kind."

As he drank he caught a gleam in her eye. Curiosity. Hunger. Definite interest.

He set down the bottle and leaned back.

And waited.

He knew the game.

She drank from the beer. Somehow the way she did it should definitely be illegal in public, he thought.

She set the bottle down. "Let's do business first," she said.

"I like to be clear on these things."

"Fifty." She eyed him across the table. "But your jeans are too tight for that much."

He reached down to the floor and pulled up a thick black cloth bag. "Bathroom's that way," he cocked his head toward the rear of the bar, "if you need to count it."

"I just want the money," she said, grimacing, "not to catch something I'll need shots for."

But that didn't stop her from looking inside the bag. "Chocolates," she said smiling as she looked up. "Nice touch."

"Consider it a first date," Booth said. He grinned. "Second date, I might bring flowers."

"I'll count on it," she said as she slid four small boxes his way.

"Decks of cards?" He saw the familiar Bicycle logo on the outside of the top box. "No games, right?"

She smiled, a delicious smile of a woman on the prowl. "I'd take a tumble with you. But let's keep this vertical for now."

"Four decks?"

"Not quite 52 cards, but no Jokers."

"I need it clear." He leaned forward and grinned. "I really want to buy you those flowers."

"Each holds 10 gift cards. Each card is worth $5,000 each."

"Untraceable."

She nodded. "You know how it goes. You'll have 3 days to use them before the store puts a hold on them."

"Okay," he said, leaning back and taking up his beer bottle, tapping it against the table, "what kind of flowers do you like?"

oOo

Waiting.

He knew how to do it. Fill in the time with something to distract. Five weeks before his cast came off. Ten days, maybe 12, before he saw Bones. Three days before he saw Parker again.

He scratched his face, the three-day beard unfamiliar and heavy. The paperwork on his desk would fill in the time, but it really wouldn't make the time go faster.

"It's clean, Booth." He looked up from his desk and saw Special Agent Mark Fletcher at his door. The man hovered there. Waiting. "The audio is perfectly clear. The federal prosecutor says we've got a case."

"And the cards?"

Fletcher grinned and brushed his hand over the edges of his suit before drawing it back and placing his hand on his hip. "Just as she said."

"And you know how they're doing it?"

"Not quite yet, but you helped us get some leverage on her. She can probably lead us to the mechanics behind this."

"Glad to help."

Fletcher held at his door a bit longer. "You don't mind getting into this a bit deeper, do you?"

What did he have to do but wait? "I'm on restricted duty until," Booth waved his cast. "Anything I can do to help."

Fletcher took a step into his office. "I want her in deeper. I know it's not homicide, but it's pretty sexy. Okay, maybe not. Hell, it's gift card fraud." He took another step inside. "Gotta admit, she's pretty sexy. The case. . . ." he left his sentence hanging. "It's relatively small now. Four to one exchange on the cards. We don't know if it's a one-time thing, someone's figured out the billing cycle on those things, or if this goes deeper."

"And you made a connection. You handled her just right. Hell," Fletcher stepped even closer, "I would of bought _you_ flowers."

All he had was time, Booth thought. Five weeks on the cast. Three weeks restricted. Ten days for Bones. Three days until Parker. "Sure."

Fletcher beamed. He'd gotten what he wanted: a willing player.

And Booth got something he needed: something to kill the time.

oOo

As a general rule, Seeley Booth could be a patient man.

He was infinitely patient as a sniper. He could wait for hours in place. Or he could set up, slowly, methodically. He could wait on the target. He could wait on the precise moment when target and sights lined up and he could make the split-second decision to end a life. He knew how to wait.

He was infinitely patient as a father. Parker was the light to all his dark times. In his son was happiness and hope. And infinite possibilities. And in Parker he could be the father a son deserved. To be patient was to protect.

And he would do that for his son.

But he was not patient in other things. He could be incredibly impatient at crime scenes. He could hound Sweets for information until he got what he wanted. He could break silence on stakeouts and try the patience of his partner in an attempt to fill the time with something that fed his restlessness.

Oh, he could be incredibly patient and impatient with his partner.

He was reminded of that fact as he tried to bring his mind back to the cases he was supervising. Restricted duty seemed a misnomer; he'd been handed a couple of murder cold cases and the gift card fraud thing and there was the extortion case he'd been asked to look at.

But despite it all, he was always drawn back to thinking about Bones.

And waiting.

He set the files Fletcher had left on the corner of his desk and sat back. Rubbing his hand over the beard, he wondered just how long it would take them to get back to some level of comfort. They weren't exactly tense with each other—just, what? Cautious? Uncertain?

Maybe he should apologize, he thought for the hundredth time. The fight had been his fault; he'd been so unsure of how to deal with her he'd been short with her. Downright cranky, sometimes.

But they seemed to be talking after the fight. Not exactly the kind of talking they needed to do, but talking. Almost normal.

Almost.

He sighed and picked up the first of the cold cases. He started a mental list of people he should pull into this: Sweets for a profile, Cam to re-examine the medical reports, Hodgins on the science jibber jabber. Bones to look deeper when she got back.

That was easy. But concentrating on the case was hard.

His wrist ached. Five weeks on the cast. Three days until Parker.

Ten days until Bones.

They hadn't really made any decisions, he thought. They hadn't really talked.

Ten days in London and however long Homeland Security would use her was too long.

And not long enough.

Maybe his apology should go back some. Maybe he should apologize for pushing her—_pushing them_—into something she wasn't ready for.

And then what?

Apologize for keeping his word? Moving on? Having feelings for another woman? Keeping his commitment to Hannah? Wanting to be loved?

Bones had stood by him, remained his partner throughout. Steadfast and loyal and hurting like hell.

He scrubbed his hand against the beard. Maybe this was what fate had in mind for them. Trial by. . . by what, really? Fear? Indecision? Pain?

Maybe fate really had needed for them to go down this path so they could both see just how much losing the other would hurt.

Reaching for his Steelers cup, he gulped at the warm liquid.

Maybe fate wanted them to go down this path and get to this place. But what was this place, really?

Where were they exactly? Thirty-six hundred miles apart on opposite sides of the ocean. At least they weren't 3600 miles apart and in the same zip code, he thought.

Standing and stretching, he glanced at the files on his desk and decided to call it a day. He _was_ on restricted duty and he _had_ time.

Ten days, in fact, to figure it out. Angela had called it a Brennan blackout, and he knew exactly what she meant. Ten days for Brennan to be in her element, to lose herself in some old bones and to wrap herself in work. He wondered how her mind could simply shut out everything else.

Booth wondered how he'd never learned that trick.

Grabbing his leather jacket, he made a mental list of things to do: pick up a pizza, call Parker, watch the game. He patted his pocket for the tickets he'd bought for Parker for the Safari Adventure this weekend.

Groaning, he managed to slide the cast through the sleeve of the jacket before slipping his other arm through.

"Agent Booth?"

He turned toward the door to see Charlie Burns framed there.

"You've got a call."

His impatience roared.

"Oh, it's London. London calling."

He pivoted toward the phone and pressed the amber light then picked up the receiver.

"Booth?"

"Are you all right?" He started making the mental calculations needed for getting to the airport through D.C. traffic.

"I'm fine, Booth. I'm fine."

"Is there a murder," he hesitated, "or something?"

"No," she paused. "There hasn't been a murder. I. . . I just wanted to talk to you."

He answered her in silence, surprised by her.

"Angela said that people talk frequently when they want to maintain a connection." Her voice betrayed just how novel the idea was to her. "You seemed to place a premium on maintaining a connection, Booth. You seemed critical of me when I did not maintain a connection with people when I went to Maluku."

It had been months ago. Another lifetime.

"You went away for a year to Malapoopoo."

This time she answered him in silence.

"Bones," he started, trying to find the right tone to send over the distance, "you wanted to talk."

"Yes," she said in that way she did when she seemed to have come to some decision. "I wanted to maintain our connection."

He sat down heavily on his chair, the full weight of her words making him feel light and heavy all at once.

"That's good, Bones," he choked out.

Her next words would make the next ten days seem like ten lifetimes.

"Booth? I find that I miss you."


	16. I Want to Hold Your Hand

**I Want to Hold Your Hand, The Beatles**

She knows from the dress of the people and the snippets of talk and the oppressive heat that she is deep in the desert of Afghanistan.

Thirty-seven hours ago she was in London, in the foggy cool, in the comfort of a lab, in the warmth of her hotel room. There she had a phone and assistants and a sense of time.

But time here in the desert is different. Time is marked by the bodies she has come to identify or breaks for tea and bichaks and rice or trips to use the bathroom.

That is why she stands here now.

She thought it the height of poor planning and design to place the washroom facilities outside the concrete bunker, but when they take her to the cave in and show her the rubble and she smells the decomposition, she understands. For her safety, one of the Afghani guards walks with her and Corporal Margie Ripkin to the wooden box that makes up their latrine. Once inside, the heat becomes stifling and she quickly relieves herself to escape the claustrophobic conditions.

Outside, she waits for Ripkin to finish, her head bowed to prevent the children in the encampment from seeing her face, from catching sight of her blue eyes that will most certainly set her apart from this tribe of Afghanis. Ever the anthropologist, she mentally records her reactions to wearing the traditional chador even as she tries to capture insights into the few people she can see. She casts a glance at the fig tree where children are gathering the fruit in baskets, their voices carrying on the desert air.

It provides the only natural shade in this place, its limbs stretching wide as if to welcome all weary nomads. The children climb its arms, embrace its thick bark, and dance along its branches.

And she wonders.

Logically she knows that she is probably nowhere near where Booth had been stationed, where Booth met Hannah, where Booth and Hannah. . . .

She feels the wave of jealousy grip her chest and she bows her head lower to counter the sensation.

The door of the latrine squeaks open and Ripkin brushes past her and she falls in step with her. Sweat trickles down her back, soaking her T-shirt. The dry heat evaporates the perspiration on her face, but does nothing for the moisture at her forehead where the hood of the chador rests. She resists the urge to attack the chafing there, mindful of the customs of these people. An observer by nature, she understands the need to blend in so as to not compromise the study. But it does nothing to prevent her from taking another look at the fig tree before she heads into the concrete bunker.

oOo

"_Sweetie, he's probably just as confused as you are about how to move forward."_

_Angela's voice travels 3600 miles to give her solace. It is her advice that gives her the impetus to first call Booth. _

_But the connection has done little to ease her mind._

"_He loved Hannah, Angela. He told me he loved her. He was making a life with her." Despite everything, the evidence was much too clear. She was a witness, an observer to their love. "Booth, who is inherently honest, said that he had moved on. That he had adjusted." _

_She remembers the conversation she had with Hannah—Booth will give everything to you, to this relationship—and she has no evidence to prove otherwise. She had no proof that his feelings for her remain. In fact, their fight—their verbal battle in the parking lot of that plastics factory—continues to haunt her, to color her own resolve in shades of doubt._

"_You can't quantify emotions, Sweetie."_

_That is the problem, she tells her friend. She cannot weigh the emotions that seem paradoxically to pull at her like gravity. _

"_How did Booth sound when you talked to him?"_

_Something in her wants to rail at the unfairness of it all—she can read a person's life buried in the timeline of their bones, but she cannot read a person's emotions on the surface of their face. _

"_Surprised. He was surprised that I had called him."_

"_Yeah, like I was surprised. Usually you go into Brennan blackout mode."_

_Entropy is the essence of life and she has made a conscious choice to change at least in this._

"_Brennan, you've already gone on a suicide mission and survived," Angela says, "you told him you wanted to take a chance even in the face of him being with Hannah. If you really want to take the chance with Booth, maybe you should talk to him again. Tell him how you feel."_

_She listens as her friend's voice travels miles to remind her that she survived the disappointment. The sadness ran deep and still weighs on her, but it has not crippled her. _

_In some ways it has made her stronger._

"_Hope is the thing with feathers." Angela calls up Emily Dickinson. "I think you can have hope that this will work out."_

"_You're saying I should have faith in Booth."_

"_Sweetie," Angela's voice reminds her of just how much she is loved by her friend, how much she loves her in return, "you should have faith in yourself."_

oOo

Deep in the concrete bunker, the air is stale but cool. Inside the makeshift lab, the strong scent of spoiled milk there reminds Brennan of why she is here: three clear plastic tubs, each with a human skull blanketed by a layer of flesh-eating beetles. Elsewhere in the lab, a table holds the remains of the two men who have been retrieved from the rubble at the other end of the bunker. Their mangled forms have already been identified and reassembled and they each lay beneath a sheer cotton cloth waiting to be removed.

Brennan has retreated to her cot and she thinks of home.

She thinks of the absurdity of beetle races on Friday night and the comfort of intellectual conversation with Zach and the excitement of having one of her papers published. Angela is there, too, pulling her out of the lab to drink and dance and defy the death that surrounds them. And Cam is there, giving order to their world, a kind of presence she did not know they needed.

And Booth. All her thoughts come around to Booth.

At the table by the cot, one of the Homeland Security officers has brought her native clothes. Unlike the chador that is black and itchy, these clothes are light and colorful and richly embroidered.

A bright gold thread runs throughout the hijab and the blouse and the skirt. In a rare moment when insight meshes with metaphor, she thinks of Booth as that gold thread running through her life.

Friday nights melted into drinks or dinner with Booth. Intellectual conversation with Zach transformed into insightful talks with Booth. It was Booth who pulled her out of the lab. It was Booth who gave order to her world, the presence she did not know she needed.

She knows what she is feeling is love. Angela would not allow her to back away from the word even across the Atlantic. She has not been able to compartmentalize the feeling or bury it deep under layers of rationalizations for some time now.

She feels this feeling despite his moving on and moving in with Hannah. She feels this despite his rejection. She feels this despite his distance and his anger.

Somehow, she thinks, her world is still turned upside down.

oOo

She drifts back into the makeshift lab and assesses how much longer the beetles will be at work. Ripkin, who is both awed and repulsed by their work, has provided a bit of levity for herself. She says she is conducting an experiment of sorts—the corporal has set up her iPod to play music for the beetles.

"I Want to Hold Your Hand," wafts through this part of the bunker.

Brennan has told her the beetles are unlikely to work faster to music, but Ripkin has programmed the musical selections to fit the occasion. "Beatles for beetles," she had exclaimed with a manic kind of glee.

Brennan wants to correct this error in reasoning—beetles probably do not hear as humans do, she wants to say, but are attuned to the vibrations. Listening to the words, she stops and finds it almost comical that the young woman would think the beetles would respond to _this_ song. "It should be, 'I want to hold your legs'," she wants to suggest, but she is so punchy from the lack of sleep and the tedium, that she refrains.

Instead, she sits back on the folding chair and rests her head against the cool concrete. She allows her eyes to shut and she hears the Beatles continue their concert. The words wash over her and, like the beetles, she allows the vibrations to lull her into a meditative state.

oOo

"_Booth? I find that I miss you."_

_Like Angela, Booth is good with people. She expects a reply, but the silence worries her and she wonders if this is just another horrible mistake in a long list of horrible mistakes with Booth._

"_Wow."_

"_Booth? Are you all right?"_

_His tone is reassuring. "I didn't expect you to call."_

"_Is this a bad time?"_

_She almost wanted him to say he was busy, he was in the middle of something, he had to get over to Rebecca's to pick up Parker, but she also needed to hold onto him for a bit longer. _

"_No, not at all. I was just about to call it a day." The pause worried her. "I'm glad you called. They've got me on restricted duty."_

_He recounted his day—an undercover assignment for a fraud investigation—and she outlined her day. And in doing so, it seemed. . . normal. Nothing of consequence. No great insight. No new startling fact. _

_But there is order to it. Sugar to sweeten her coffee. Each night turns to day. Two plus two equals four. _

oOo

By her watch she has been cleaning skulls and reassembling skeletons for over 127 hours now. Ripkin has called this a shell game—Brennan does each task without truly knowing which is the one that Homeland Security places the greatest premium on. By her count, she has reassembled two partially skeletalized remains, two crushed bodies, two skulls, and identified three charred skulls.

She is bone weary when Ripkin enters and tells her that they are leaving. Unlike when they go out in the chador and they are one of the many anonymous Afghani women, this time they are going out dressed in native costume. "Hidden in plain sight," Ripkin says. "Just don't look directly at anyone, especially the men, and we'll be good."

But she knows the edge to Ripkin's voice cannot disguise that something is wrong. Ripkin begins to dress in front of her, and she sees proof of the young woman's worry. On her limbs she has written her name in black marker. Her torso, legs and arms are each imprinted with her name. "Save them the trouble of sending for you, Dr. Brennan. Easy identification."

She sheds her T-shirt and tries to wipe away the smells of death and sweat and decay from her skin with a wet cloth. The jihab and blouse and skirt are much too festive for death and she wraps herself carefully into their folds. Her fingers trace the gold thread and linger.

Ripkin straps a gun to her waist and hides it in the flowing cloth. Outside they will emerge as butterflies from this cocoon of death. Outside they will blend in and pretend to belong in a place they do not belong.

She knows now why they took her necklace and her earrings and her mother's ring in London and replaced them with dogtags and her clothes with desert-camouflage and Afghani cloaks. Two Afghanis soldiers—men she has not seen before—enter the lab as she is tying her shoes. Instinctively, she raises the cloth from the outer blouse as a veil for her face and lowers her eyes briefly.

The stouter one nods and speaks harshly in Pashto then Dari.

She understands. They must go now.

The taller of the two beckons her to follow and she obeys.

When they emerge from the bunker, their clothes are much too rich for the seamless tans of the desert. A crowd of Afghani villagers slowly join them—four becomes six, then eight, then twelve.

Children dance along the edges of this colorful gathering that seems to ebb and flow with numbers.

The constants are the tall Afghani just in front of her and Ripkin at her side and the stout guard at the rear.

Suddenly gunfire splits the air. Ripkin pulls her to the ground and she finds the ground cool beneath her face. The soil smells rich beneath her and she recognizes the scent of figs.

In the crush of scattering people, all she can see are fragments of images, swatches of colors. Ripkin holds her forearm. She sees the tire-tread soles of the Afghani's boots in front of her.

Angry voices surround her and she wonders irrationally if she is finally living Lauren Eames' life.

Rarely has she wallowed in regrets and she refuses to indulge them now. She looks up and tries to assess the situation.

There is no clear escape route.

"One quarter mile to the chopper," Ripkin whispers as if sensing her distress. "We're going to get there together, Dr. Brennan."

Brennan wonders at the insanity of the situation and the stupidity of bureaucrats. Here, with her face pressed against a fig-soaked earth, she reminds herself of why she finds all religions to be irrational. If she were allowed to be a Western woman in this Eastern world, she would be better prepared. A gun, perhaps, she thinks. Or perhaps she would not even be needed to identify lives shattered by the insanity of war.

She only knows that she will not accept a quiet death here.

The tall Afghani rises slowly to his knees, his rifle at the ready, his body taut with tension. The stouter guard also rises and then stands and begins shouting and waving his rifle in anger.

She can barely make out the insults being hurled back and forth. The tall Afghani rises and joins in the barrage of words.

Ripkin finally tries a smile. "Bastard was celebrating the birth of his child," she translates. "Wanted to tell the whole village."

Cultural norms of behavior aside, Brennan thinks it highly irrational to celebrate a birth with the potential for so, so many deaths.

Within minutes the anger has turned to one-armed hugs and claps on the back and their Afghani guards seem to lead the congratulations.

She has been under fire before with Booth and her reaction is as she would expect. Her heart rate and respiration fall back into acceptable parameters within minutes.

Wiping the dust and dirt from her clothes, she cannot wipe away the scent of figs that seem to dare her.

In the chopper, when they are safely airborne and she can remove the hijab from her head, she feels a wave of cool air relieve her fevered skin. Ripkin hands her headphones which she dons.

Fingering the rich cloth, she traces the line of gold thread from the hijab to the blouse to the skirt.

And she makes herself a promise.

She will live Temperance Brennan's life. It might be, as Angela said, a suicide mission, but she will not live with that as her regret.


	17. Purple Haze

_**Purple Haze: Jimi Hendrix**_

Here's the scene: Dulles International Airport, International Arrivals Gate 3.

Man, about 40, tall, brown hair, brown eyes, is waiting. He's wearing a leather jacket over a vintage T-shirt. At his waist, clipped onto his belt, is a badge.

He's waiting for the flight from London.

If he can use his badge for preferential treatment, he will. What's the use of having a badge if you can't use it every once in a while?

No. He's not the one to cadge donuts or garner other freebies with his shield. No. It's just that it's been almost two weeks since he's seen her and he wants an edge on all the other people here. Just an edge. Hell, maybe he'll get to see her seconds before the others see their loved ones, but that's just fine with him.

She missed him.

She doesn't say things like that often, but she's been surprising him of late. For several days she called with a regularity he could count on. Each call began with the familiar chords of her voice, a question, "Are you busy?"

She missed him.

Three words that seeped under his skin and gave him hope. Heart hope.

So, yeah. He'll use the badge to see her a millisecond earlier than anyone like him should hope to.

Besides, she's been incommunicado for almost half the time she's been away. Homeland Security. He's put in calls, tried to call in favors if only to find out if she's all right in that time when her phone calls stopped. He knows she's the best and they sometimes need the best for their work, but that doesn't mean he didn't worry about her while she was gone. He's the kind of guy who has a lot of faith in the American government. Hell, he bleeds red, white and blue. He's served his country as an Army Ranger and as a highly trained sniper. He's still serving it as a special agent of the FBI. He knows the work.

But he couldn't help but wonder if maybe she'd be a little safer, he'd be a little less worried if he had been there watching over her.

She missed him.

There are other words that he'll cherish, other words he wants to hear her say. Words whispered over bare skin in the dead of night when the only sounds are heartbeats and sighs and gasps. When words become sensation. When sensation becomes truth. When words and sensation seep under one's skin and become heart truth.

And so he waits.

In his pocket is a set of keys for a car that's waiting for them in short-term parking. "You won't miss it," her father had told him. "And if you do, Tempe will know which car it is."

Max Keenan shouldn't surprise him, but he does. The man shows up out of nowhere and presses the keys into his hand and tells him the flight number and "I can't pick her up today" (what a shock) and with a wave and "Next time, kid" he's gone on the wind like the old hawk he is.

He'd like to tell Max Keenan where to stick the keys because he knows just how much collateral damage he's done to his daughter in his flight to save her life. The willful, independent, stubborn, brilliant, beautiful, open girl closed off so much of herself to the cold world she'd been thrust into too soon that he's never quite sure where that girl ends and the woman starts.

So much of the mythology that makes up her religion (yes, _religion_—never mind that she's an atheist) was crafted because of Max and Ruth. The tenets of her faith— love is a chemical process; love is ephemeral; love is an idiot—bastardize all that he knows to be true. All he hopes could be true.

For them.

While he waits he speculates what might have brought about the phone calls from across the ocean, but one thing he knows to be true about her is that she is unerringly honest and direct. If he can trust anything, he can trust that. So when she tells him that she missed him, that she was sorry she missed hearing about his time with his son, that she missed the opening of a new exhibit in the Paleontology wing of the Jeffersonian, he can do nothing but believe.

He rattles the car keys in his left hand. His right is still encased in a cast. Time moves much too slowly for him and much too fast and he feels as if he is teetering on the edge of something.

oOo

Here's the scene: International flight 447 from London to Washington touches down.

Woman, 34, brunette with blue eyes, sits waiting for the light to indicate she can disembark the plane. She wears jeans and a simple, rose blouse under a light jacket.

The willpower that kept her working on and off over a period of 127 hours faded and her body, long-wracked by fatigue and fear, succumbed to sleep on the 10-hour flight from Kabul to London.

Back in London, Col. Ripkin was replaced by Agent Franklin Wells from Homeland Security who ushered her off the plane and through the streets until she was in a sterile lab where the two skulls she re-constructed in Afghanistan waited for her.

Four hours later, she was escorted to a plane for home.

The 8-hour flight is filled with reading and sleeping and making notes for her next novel. And thinking.

She expects nothing except to see her father who has agreed to pick her up from the airport.

She had considered calling Angela, but while her friend is merely pregnant, she does not want to inconvenience her. She had considered calling Booth, but while she wants to see him, she is not sure what to make of the strength of that feeling.

She is not sure what to make of anything she is feeling.

oOo

He watches as the first passenger emerges from the gate.

It is her.

A tall, government-type accompanies her, stops to shake her hand and then falls back as she begins to head his way wheeling her lone bag behind her.

And she smiles.

Really, there are several smiles in that one smile. He hears his name and the smile breaks into surprise and then widens into happiness pulling back into contentment.

With a few strides he catches her in his arms and holds her so close he can feel her heartbeat.

"I missed you," he groans before he releases her.

Her face registers a hint of doubt, the doubt of a 15-year-old girl who was shuffled between families proving to her she is unwanted and unlovable. "You missed me?"

"I missed you," he repeats.

And he answers her doubtful look with something he promised himself he would not do again, not until he was sure.

He pulls her toward him and kisses her as proof.

She tastes of peppermint and trust when she does not pull away, but answers him with her lips. He allows himself to feel more than just the sensations that overwhelm him.

He feels hope. Heart hope.

oOo

Here's the scene: Dulles International Airport, International Arrivals Gate 3.

The man and the woman embrace, then kiss.

The woman's wheeled luggage is an afterthought as she grips his jacket tighter with both hands. The man's right hand, still in a cast, is anchored at her waist, while his left claims her shoulder to pull her closer.

When the kiss ends, they both seem to stumble backwards as if they have forgotten how to stand on their own. Only then do they realize they are an island in a sea of people flowing around them. They glance at each other shyly and he grabs for the handle of her luggage and she takes at the handle of her luggage and they both begin to pull if behind them.

oOo

Her brain registers the kiss and replays it as if to record it as a scientific process. The scientist in her knows that a single kiss trips a myriad of chemical reactions within the body. She knows that sex attractant pheromones, secreted by a male or a female to attract the opposite sex, are widespread in all animal species and insects and these play a part in the beginning of the kiss. The skin of the lips is only half as thick as normal skin and electric currents actually flow along the nerves from the brain to all of the 34 facial muscles during a kiss. Part of the primitive brain is stimulated and releases hormones that tell the pituitary glands to produce gonadotrophin that stimulate the ovaries and testicles. Another hormone, oxytocin, is released and promotes caring feelings toward one's partner. Adrenalin and noradrenalin cause blood to switch from the stomach to the limbs, increasing blood pressure and making one's body warmer, creating a rosy glow. Lips swell and redden. Levels of serotonin fall while dopamine rise intensifying one's desire to crave more. Natural amphetamines and endorphins act like opium to create excitement and relieve pain and make the act addictive.

She knows that a disproportionately large area of the brain is dedicated to lip and tongue movements, making kissing particularly satisfying.

She knows these things on one level, her scientific, no-nonsense layer. Science explains what she is feeling. Science offers safety, security. 

But in that deeper layer, the one Avalon once said was as crazy as she was, in the layer where Joy once resided until she became Temperance, in the layer where she hides Roxy, she doesn't care about the science of the kiss.

She only cares about doing it again.

oOo

He only knows one thing—she is walking beside him, her hand a mere inch or so from his, and he is in a purple haze he does not want to lose. She is walking beside him. It doesn't take two of them to pull her wheeled luggage, but he doesn't want to let go for fear of losing the closeness. He matches his strides to her shorter ones and wants to abandon her bag in the middle of the concourse and take her into his arms and kiss her again.

This is controlled chaos; he's touched heaven and he can't let go.


	18. Maybelline

_**Maybelline**_**: Chuck Berry**

God, she's gorgeous. First thing I thought of when I saw her was, _Whoa, baby_. Beautiful and sensuous, elegant and graceful. _Whoa. She's hot._

Too bad she isn't running. Now _that_ would be something. Love to watch that. Love to ride that. But even so, she does take your breath away the moment you lay eyes on her even standing dead still.

Woman's a real looker, too. Sexy in an _I-don't-need-to-flaunt-it_ kind of way. Looks like a model.

Love to see her hair whipping around as we're cruising down the highway in that baby. Hell, I'd let her drive just so I could look.

Probably have to take the guy with us. His car, probably. Who knows? He's got that look, you know. Leather jacket, T-shirt—_I've-got-money-and-I-spend-it-on-$30-tees-and-quarter-million-dollar-cars_.

"What is it?" I ask. I tow cars for a living and frankly, I don't see many cars like this.

Sounds like I'm asking about some stupid-ass bug or something. I do feel kinda dumb about this. I'm more of a muscle car kinda guy. You know, overhead valve V8, two barrel carburetors. That sort of thing. Those cars don't measure up to this, though. This is classic, old-time movie stuff. Those are Steve McQueen and Burt Reynolds. This is Cary Grant and Clark Gable.

"It's a 1932 Packard Deluxe Eight Coupe Roadster," she supplies and I start to wonder if maybe _it is_ her car. Bought from modeling at $50 gadzillion an hour.

It pays to be cool, kinda laid back in this job. Once I got to hitch an Aston Martin DB5 and tow that baby back to the garage. Some big ass lobbyist owned it. Guy's cruising down the road with some hot babe in the car and next thing, you know, he's wrapped it around a tree.

Wasn't gettin' his deposit back on that baby. No, sir.

James Bond wouldn't have done that. Hell, no. He would have wrapped it around a tree only _after_ using the pop-out machine guns and flame throwers and having it blown to hell and back. Bond would of kissed the girl and killed the bad guys and saved the world and not gotten a scratch on that car.

Lucky for me, the Packard just decided to give up the ghost and die when they stopped at a stop sign at the corner of Dickinson and Whitman.

Man, this is not the kind of car I expect on a call. I don't see many women like her, either. Oh, yeah, sometimes I see women like her, but this guy has that strictly _hands-off-or-I'll-break-you_ kind of guy look. Not aggressive. Just protective.

Right now he looks like if he's going to smash anything, it would be the car.

"I'm telling you," the guy is saying to the woman, "it's the carburetor."

"It can't be the carburetor, Booth," the woman is saying. "I rebuilt it myself."

"There you go, Bones," he is saying. "You're better at rebuilding human skulls. Not carburetors."

They're entertaining. Don't understand them. _She rebuilt the carburetor?_  
_Whoa, definitely hot._ She's nice to look at and the car is pretty sweet. And the back and forth is just kinda, well, kinda. . . hell, I don't know. Not mean or angry. It's just something for the two of them to do. You know. One of those _who-is-gonna-be-at-the-top-of-the-heap-at-the-end-of-the-argument_ arguments.

I'd have to be years younger, and a million dollars richer to get her. To be on the top, bottom or side of the heap with that one. She was intense. Gorgeous.

A bit full of herself to boot.

"I did not make a mistake in putting the carburetor together, Booth."

It's not the words so much as the attitude.

"You going to fix the car?"

The guy was, well, intense, too. He's looking at me, his hand at his waist, casual like, but with a purpose. His right hand is in a cast. He wants you to know who's the boss.

But he isn't the boss of _that_ lady. No siree.

"Hey, next to _Fringe_, you guys are the next best show I've seen."

That might have shut up most people, but not them.

"I don't know what that means," she says.

"Just fix the car," he demands.

"I don't really fix 'em," I tell them. "I just haul 'em in."

The guy makes a sweep of his hand and he starts to pull the woman to the side of the road to let me do my work.

It's not a busy place. Dickinson and Whitman is some contractor's dream site. _"Beautifully wooded sites just waiting for your vision of family and home!" _The contractor puts up a billboard, builds a model home and lays out some streets and _voila_! The economy tanks. The wooded sites remain wooded and the streets mostly dead-end and are great for taking the kid out for a driving lesson.

I'm under that car in a jiff and I really just want to sit in the driver's seat and take her for a spin. I'd name her, too. Something cool. Maybe exotic.

She's a deep blue color with lighter blue trim and a white rag top that's pulled down to take advantage of the warm day. Open fenders. Big honking headlamps. Whitewall tires.

If I owned a house, I'd have to sell it twice to own a car like this.

"I can't really say what her problem is out here," I say to make conversation. While the guy's pulled her off to the side, the woman still wants to see what I'm doing to her car and she's made her way back. "My guess"—and I really felt bad for saying it—"is the carburetor's sticking."

The guy looked like he was king of the hill, he did. "Let me put her on the back of the tow truck and take her in. Andy can fix just about anything at the garage."

"You're being metaphorical," she says, all seriousness and intensity, as I double check the tow chain.

"She's a beauty, she is." I wipe his hands on the rag I pulled from the truck. I know grease monkeys get greasy, but it seems shabby next to her and the car. And even him. "A real beauty. You have her long?"

The guy is looking at the woman and the woman is looking at the car, and the guy said, "Yeah, you're right" and the woman caught on that he isn't just talking about the car and she looked at him.

And it's like watching a lightning storm light up the sky and leave the air charged and ready for anything. That's them.

"You have the car long?"

It's like I have to drag them back to reality. I feel like I've walked in on my daughter and her boyfriend the way they're looking at each other.

oOo

A lot of people want to ride in their cars on the flatbed, but it's against the shop policy. It's the insurance.

People with a classic car like that hover and want to check and double check your work. It's like your sole purpose on earth is to scratch the car and their sole purpose is to make sure you don't.

But then you get the guys who are possessive. Louie, the weekend guy, once had a customer who insisted he had to ride in his car to the garage. Just had to. Louie spent almost a half hour telling the guy he couldn't do it. Just couldn't. Guy just had to.

And it was a piece of shit Mazda. Looked like rats had been snacking on it. My dead Aunt Fanny could have probably beat it in a race.

Not them. I liked that about them. Yeah, they were concerned about the car, but they were respectful of my job. I got the feeling they didn't care if the car blew up just as long as they were together.

They ride in the cab with me. He's got his arm around her. It's not like I'm a threat. No. I ask them to excuse the smell. Louie's Italian and between the oil smells and the garlic and the body odor, the inside of the cab smells like a cross between a locker room and Tazino's Italian Bistro.

"The smell won't bother me," she says and I believe her. "But Booth is more sensitive."

Like I said, they were fun. He'd jab her about the carburetor and she'd jab back about something. He groaned and they looked at each other and, you know, it was like I wasn't there.

"So, your brother restored the engine?"

I like conversation in the cab. The radio is full of all kinds of crap squeezed in between the commercials and I like real live conversation. Besides, Louie killed the CD player. Don't ask me how. It just doesn't inspire confidence in customers if the tow truck has something broken in it, even if it's only the CD player.

"Yes."

Not exactly my idea of conversation. She's leaning into the guy who's got a smile despite the fact that this trip is putting a dent in his afternoon.

"How much of the car is original equipment?"

"Approximately 74.6%."

The guy takes it all in stride, but it's the funniest thing I think I've heard. She's so sincere and certain in her number that I don't know what to say.

"Wow."

Okay, I sounded like some kinda moron, but she surprised me, that's all. No woman I know comes up with a number like that. Not my youngest daughter.

"_Got your homework done, honey?"_

"_Mostly. I finished 74.6% of the reading, Dad."_

Not my wife.

"_Do you love me?"_

"_Oh, I think I love you 74.6% today." _

Okay, so maybe I'm making more of a deal about this than I should. Maybe I'm seeing one thing and expecting one thing and this lady is turning my expectations inside out. In a way, they both are.

It's a 35-minute drive back to the garage and, like I said, there's nothing in the electronic noise box I want to hear. "So how does it handle?"

"Like a dream." It's the guy's turn. He seems to hold the woman closer, if that's possible, without pulling her onto his lap. "It's surprisingly quiet."

"Booth means that he wouldn't expect a car built on a wooden frame such as the Packard, to be so free of extraneous noises."

"She means it doesn't creak much."

"I think he knows what I meant."

They go back and forth like that and I think they're doing it on purpose.

Like I said, they're fun.

oOo

By the time we get to the garage, I know that she's a forensic anthropologist and he's an FBI agent and the car was built for 85 mph, but they've kept her 135 horses in check at a modest 55 mph. Their jobs sound impressive to my not-so-impressive one, but that's how that goes. They know I've been doing this for 25 years and my wife's my best friend. I don't see wedding rings, so I highlight the one thing I know about a successful relationship: you got to be friends. Best friends.

Like I said, I like conversation.

Andy's straining at the bit to get at the Packard and a few of the customers hanging out in the waiting room abandon the afternoon SportsCenter on the TV and watch as we pop her hood. We've got a regular crowd at a respectful distance as Andy tosses out ideas as to why she stalled.

It all comes back to the carburetor.

I know the woman won't like it. And the guy will get on her for it. And there will be some more of that lightning between them.

And as the 3-4 customers are milling around watching Andy do his thing, I've got the perfect name for the car. Maybelline. You know, "Oh, Maybelline, why can't you be true?"

Her carburetor's betrayed the woman, made her look bad in front of the guy.

But I don't really think she much cares. Frankly, I don't think either of them cares.

I head back to the waiting room thinking I'll give them an update, and I can't find them.

Part of me wants a chance to drive the Packard around the block, the top down and the wind rippling over my bald head.

Okay, George Clooney, I ain't.

Part of me is a bit concerned when I don't find them right away. Andy's got the Packard roaring back to life with a little adjustment on the carburetor. He's holding court with the customers, telling them about Babbitt bearings and harmonic stabilizers and rumble seats.

SportsCenter is just electronic noise.

Maybelline could be leaving us soon and I need to tell the couple or Andy might be there all night and then some drooling over the car.

He might sell tickets.

I head toward a small coffee shop across the street. Andy's coffee won't kill ya, but the coffee shop coffee actually tastes like the real thing. Probably because they use the real thing.

I can see them framed in the window. She's testing the fingers of his right hand, the one in the cast, and he pulls her hands to his lips and kisses them.

The world stops, sometimes, for lovers. I do the respectful thing and give them their time.

Fifteen minutes later they're back at the garage. They're in no hurry to get back to their world. The guy's talking with the customers about the car, letting everyone have their turn behind the wheel.

The seat is real tan leather that fits this old man's rump like a glove. Wood trim. Lots of chrome. Not all that plastic stuff they've got today.

The wheel reminds me of a semi's as I crank that baby driving it around the block. The guy's next to me as I test drive Andy's repair.

She handles like a dream.

I can't help smiling as I pull back into the garage bay and part the crowd that's gathered with the Packard's nose.

Don't tell my wife, but I think I'm in love.

The woman's paid Andy and climbs into the passenger seat as the guy slides over to take the wheel. Maybelline roars back to life and begins to purr and like I said, I'm in love.

But so are they.

We're all standing around waving and watching as they drive off.

Oh, Maybelline. Why can't you be true?


	19. Hound Dog

_**Hound Dog:**_** Elvis Presley**

He can still taste Bones' kisses on his lips when it happens.

The blonde in his undercover operation, Tracy Lord, throws herself at him, kissing him, grinding her breasts into his chest as her hand cups his. . . .

"So what do you think, Caroline?"

They're in Fletcher's office a floor above his watching and re-watching the tape of the meet at The Back Alley from last night. It's "Groundhog Day" all over again as they wind and re-wind the tape to watch Lord trying to get all over him.

Some part of him is afraid she almost succeeded.

"What do I think, Booth?" He wants Caroline to shut down the operation, say he's crossed a line, say he's done playing the buyer in the fraud case. "I think if you're thinking of making a porno, you got to show more skin, cherie."

Caroline and Fletcher are practically giddy as they watch the tape. He knows the truth: he didn't cross a line but played his part perfectly. If anything, Tracy Lord is even more hooked.

But why does he feel like the fish wriggling on a hook?

"She crossed the line, not you, Agent Booth."

G. Anthony Franczwa III, another federal prosecutor, makes that pronouncement. He's been watching the tape with Caroline and Fletcher and sitting back waiting to give a second opinion.

With all the make-up and the attitude, Tracy Lord still is attractive, and Booth can't discount what that might do to a man. Especially a man who spent the afternoon with his partner when a tall, willowy blonde crushes herself to him and starts to explore his lips, chest and….

"How's this going to play in court? Will it taint how the jury views the evidence?"

He's desperate to make this right somehow. Catholic guilt preys on his mind while Bones has hold of his heart and Tracy had hold of his. . . . Fletcher seems to grin wider every time the tape shows Tracy's assault.

"There's nothing in this particular tape or the other transcripts that suggest entrapment, Agent Booth." Franczwa might be humorless and robotic, but his conviction rate rivals Caroline's. "Besides, she's just the ground soldier. We want her to lead us to the general of this operation."

"She's already in for, what is it? Over a million in fraudulent cards?" Fletcher stands and crosses his arms looking quite pleased with himself "That's a whole lot of leverage."

Booth blew out the breath he's been holding and tries to put this down to one of those things he has to do for the job. Caroline eyes him.

"As long as you don't initiate contact or make blatant suggestions or decide to do a horizontal mambo, cherie, we're in the clear."

"You're the only one to get this far with her." He knows that Franczwa probably doesn't realize the innuendo in his comment, but it still doesn't make him feel good about this. "You're our man in this fraud case. You stay with the case."

Caroline's eyes continue to bore into him. He can practically guess what she's thinking.

But it is Fletcher's comment that really gets to him.

"Face it, Booth. You're nothing but a hound dog."

oOo

How had he taken that chance with Brennan and kissed her at the airport? Then again when he dropped her off at her apartment before heading out on his undercover assignment?

He certainly knew why he'd done it. Why he wanted to do it again and again until they were both breathless.

Yet, he couldn't have predicted just how easily they both fell into an easy step that entire afternoon. The moment on the shuttle when he was sure Brennan's brain had caught up with what he had done, her excitement at seeing the Packard had erased the risk he'd taken from her mind.

She had grabbed his arm and steered him to the classic. Unfolding the story of how her father had found the car and persuaded her to buy it and Russ to restore it began as they worked together to figure out how to fold the top down and continued as he eased it out of the parking lot and into DC traffic.

He had half-expected she would have spent the week with Russ and his family writing or reading. He'd never pressed her to find out what she had done. Their conversation had been cursory then, at best. He knew he'd pushed her into escaping from him and he hadn't the heart to listen to a recap of how she had rebuilt her equilibrium.

Somehow Max, that old fox, had figured out a way they could escape being their old selves, worn and uncertain with each other, by presenting them with something so out of the ordinary that everything they seemed to touch that day became extraordinary.

They became extraordinary.

Or maybe they had just become _themselves_ again.

oOo

He retreats to his office and begins to shuffle papers in the Midlothian investigation and fields a call from a witness when his cell chirps and the caller ID tells him it's Bones. He knows she's hit the lab running—as usual—and probably has information on the cold case he shot their way. Cam had said they were stymied and Bones is his last shot at making some headway.

But he's not sure he wants to talk to her quite yet.

Going undercover does not mean going under the covers with a suspect and while he knows he did nothing wrong as an agent of the federal government in an ongoing investigation in a fraud case, he still wonders why Tracy's touch affected him as it did.

He's had to break out all the stops in being charming with the woman. It's a part, he reminds himself. Little more than an actor taking on a role. But his body shouldn't have responded to _her_ as it did. Not when he most definitely wanted a different woman.

When his phone chirps a second time, he fields the text message from another investigator in the Midlothian case and loses himself answering email queries from other agents and double checking information on the fraud case.

By noon he's let a second of Bone's phone messages go to voice mail.

Only later will he realize what a mistake he's made.

oOo

The woods of the Elysian Fields subdivision beckoned them if only to take them off the highway and onto gently winding roads that went nowhere. Small red flags left by surveyors and well-weathered lot signs were all that seemed left of some developer's dream.

"The Elysian Fields were the final resting place of the heroic and virtuous in Greek mythology," she supplied. "Oddly enough, the name Elysium may have evolved from a designation of a place or person struck by lightning, perhaps referring to Zeus and being 'lightning struck' or blessed by Zeus. Or the word may have evolved from the Egyptians' _ialu_, a paradisiacal land of plenty in which the dead planned to spend eternity."

"What?" He had to laugh at how she could pull out entire encyclopedic references from her squinty brain. "We're not here to spend eternity, just to give you a chance to drive the car out of traffic."

"**Friedrich Schiller referenced Elysium in his poem which inspired Beethoven's 'Ode to Joy,'" she continued. ****She made no move to open the door or to slide over and switch places with him. "It's very idyllic here, peaceful."**

"**You're stalling." Over the years, he learned how she responded to many situations sometimes pulling out anthropology or trivia or science to help her understand the context of something or offer up useful information. Sometimes she still surprised him. "You don't think you can handle this baby." **

"**I'm not stalling, Booth," she said and slid over, her left hand at the back of his neck as her right pulling his face toward hers and into a kiss.**

**Sometimes she still surprised him.**

**oOo**

**He's just about to take on Brennan's messages when Fletcher comes into his office. "Has Tracy contacted you today?"**

**The pattern has been consistent: he gets a phone call, makes the "date" and in the next day or two Tracy calls him to finalize the details. Everything is arranged with disposable cell phones and at random bars—Shenanigans, Lou's Place, Misteak, He's Not Here, Lucky 7—an hour before he's supposed to show up. The only lead time he gets is to collect the cash to buy the cards. **

**Booth shakes his head. "You don't think I've put her off, do you?"**

**He's not an undercover guy although he can handle himself well enough. After the kiss with Tracy he told her he was involved. He didn't want to mess it up for a quick tumble no matter how tempting. **

**He'd already decided on where to draw the line if the flirting went too far. **

_**She'd caressed him and let her hands linger before smiling and stepping back. "She better eat you up before I do," Tracy had purred.**_

"_**Business before pleasure," he'd managed. "We've got a good thing here. Making money for us both."**_

"_**Am I making money for her?" Tracy's eyes had that lean and hungry look. "She's got to be pretty special to take someone like you off the meat market."**_

"**Like you said, she was probably checking you for wires," Fletcher counters. "She's easy on the eyes if you're into the kind who's flash and flesh. Some guys do get all the luck."**

**Fletcher's been twice divorced and word has it he's on the prowl, but he's a good agent and steady on the job. He's been open about everything involving the case and he's never once taken all the credit for their progress. No, he might be a bit of a player in his personal life, but he's been a stand up guy in his professional doings.**

"**Booth, you're doing what we need done right now." Fletcher adopts a serious tone, the one that he must use to keep his 87% solve rate. "She's responding well to you. I think yesterday's grope session might have been her way to check if you're legit. She's never let any of our other guys work with her more than once. You've been her guy for what, six of these buys? Something's working."**

"**That's why you're our guy."**

**oOo**

**The kiss in the car surprised him. It was soft and gentle, barely anything except it felt like everything. Before he could respond or pull her deeper into the kiss, she broke it off and slid out of the car. In seconds she was practically pushing at him to slide over and let her have her turn before he could react. **

**At that moment, he wondered what the reason for naming her Temperance had been. She had once been Joy, but circumstances and a strong sense of preservation had propelled Matthew and Ruth Keenan to don new names for their family. Max. Christine. Russ. Temperance.**

**Was it to set her apart in case she became lost? Did they already know that she was special? Were they trying to tamp down her spirit? Make her somehow learn to blend into the world instead of ride atop it?**

**Because as far as he could see as he sat in that car trying to slide over fast enough to accommodate her impatience, she could be anything but temperate. She could go from 0 to 60 in under a millisecond.**

**And he didn't know if he had the power to keep up with her, but he sure wanted to try.**

**oOo**

"**Booth?"**

**When he looks up at the sound of the voice, he's prepared and unprepared for what he'll see. **

"**Sweets?"**

"**Agent Fletcher wanted me to update the profile on Tracy Lord." He held out an FBI folder. "I saw the tape of your operation last night. She's certainly a sexually aggressive female, no doubt, spurred on by your approach to the case."**

**He reaches out for the folder, his intent to stop the analysis before it becomes more pointed and personal, but the delivery does nothing to end Sweets' explanation. "I'd say that she's come to see you as someone with whom she could enter into a sexual relationship with and still feel somewhat in control of the situation. She would see it as comparable to signing a binding contract. I'm fairly certain she's used that ploy in the past to assess her business partners."**

**This is where psychology and conjecture meet and not for the first time does he wonders if Bones might be right about the vagaries of delving into one's mind. "That's not going to happen, Sweets. I'm just trying to gather evidence in the case."**

**He's got the folder and his unease about the whole Tracy Lord case continues to simmer in his gut. Something isn't setting right there and he's not sure the next stage of the operation is as easy to predict as Fletcher thinks or Sweets' profile suggests. **

"**Your discomfort about her obvious sexually. . . ."**

"**I'm fine, Sweets."**

"**If this is because you haven't had a relationship since Hannah. . . ."**

"**I'm fine, I'm fine, Sweets. Everything is fine."**

"**Well, if you need to talk. . . ."**

"**No, I don't need to talk. I just need to get back to this fraud case."**

**The problem with talking, he thinks, is that it always reveals too much. **

"**You must enjoy working fraud, Agent Booth. It must be a good change for you. Agent Fletcher seems to think it's a good fit. A nice plus for your career."**

**His gut is warning him, but he does what he usually does when it's Sweets. With a flip of the folder in his hand and a pointed, "Got to take care of this now," he's out the door of his own office and down the hall headed for anywhere but there.**

**oOo**

**Who started it, he didn't really know. **

**A quick hour-long trip to the airport and back had stretched into almost 4 hours and he knew he might have another hour trip for his rendezvous with Tracy, but he almost wanted to give up his job and the fraud case for the brunette in his arms who was kissing him within an inch of his life. **

**Or was he kissing her?**

**And when they broke apart and he realized they still stood outside her apartment door, the simple acts of opening the door and wheeling her bag inside forgotten in the moment when their lips connected, he didn't care about anything more than taking her into his arms again. Lines had been erased and dams would break. Especially in her next word. Four letters that promised a lifetime of happiness and hope.**

"**Stay."**

**He kissed her. A promise. A guarantee in a life without guarantees. **

"**I've got to get back."**

**It was hard to get back to reality when they'd erased years of false starts and boundaries in one afternoon.**

**Her hand, a feathery touch against the fabric of his T-shirt, traced a new battle line to be destroyed in mouth-to-mouth combat. "Come by when you're done, Booth," she said finally.**

"**It'll be too late. I've really got to go," he said as his body refused to obey. "Bones, I've really got. . . ." **

**His mouth claimed hers again. **_**I feel like this is going somewhere. **_**He released her lips. ** **Then her. "What the hell are we doing?"**

_**That look. That look would be forever etched in his mind. That look of amusement. That quizzical look. That slightly cocked head. Searching eyes. A smile. A smile beginning slowly as if uncertain then holding in a curved line that practically dared him to erase it. Another line to be erased. A challenge best left for another day all contained in a look. That look. **_

**He found some semblance of control finally and released her and took the key from her. "We can't do this now," he said. He opened the door and with a sigh watched as she stepped inside and disappeared from view.**

**oOo**

**This afternoon slips by marked by reports and phone calls. He's left two messages for Bones on her voice mail when he notices a missed call from Cam. The return call goes immediately to voice mail. **

**He's in the observation room watching an interview when his cell phone chirps and he takes it. **

"**Finally. . . what the hell, Seeley?"**

**Cam's voice comes in staccato bursts that make little sense. "We're at a crime. . . . Paxton says. . . . Liaison. . . . Jeffer. . . . Upset. . . . Dr. Bren. . . ."**

"**Cam? Cam?" He talks to the silence, asks it to call him back before he realizes he's lost the call. He tries to reconnect, but the digital operator tells him she's outside the calling area.**

**He tries Bones and the ringing drops off before another electronic voice tells him that she, too, is outside the calling range.**

**Despite restricted duty, he's too caught up in the case he's been trying to put together today to make the trip down to the Jeffersonian. He tries Cam and Bones again to no avail. He calls Angela.**

**He can tell just how wrong things are from her tone of voice. The usually enthusiastic greeting falls flat.**

"**What happened, Booth?" The question is followed by an explanation behind Cam's phone call. "An Agent Paxton showed up this afternoon to introduce himself as the new permanent FBI liaison to the Jeffersonian."**

"**No, Angela, that's wrong. If there's a murder investigation, the bureau will assign another agent temporarily. Bones and Cam knew that. I'm the liaison to the Jeffersonian."**

"**He came here and said you had requested a transfer to fraud this morning." The silence on the line is damning. He's told Fletcher he likes the work, told him they work well together. He'd never proposed a partnership. He's got a partner. "What the hell happened between you and Brennan? She came in this morning . . . happier than I've seen her in a long time and then. . . this."**

**He listens as Angela describes the conversation between Paxton, Cam and Brennan. And the reaction. Bones' reaction. Cam had gone along to a crime scene in West Virginia up in coal country, if only to ensure her forensic anthropologist didn't seize up like some rusted machinery or launch the FBI agent into one of the coal mines in a fit of pique. Hodgins went, too.**

**He wonders if Bones really needs so many witnesses to what must certainly feel like betrayal. Abandonment. **

**Evidence that she was truly right about love.**

"**Booth, what the hell happened? Brennan's. . . ."**

**She doesn't have to finish the thought. He can imagine. **

**He tries to piece together who said what and when and how it came out to be that he wanted to work frauds instead of murders. Suddenly his right forearm which is still in a cast seems too heavy. Fate is playing one of its cruel jokes on him. Fate let him take one step forward then pushes him back two steps and then sits on the sidelines laughing.**

"**Ange, I didn't request a transfer." He tries to explain that the case he's working is complicated and he might need to follow through with it for a few more weeks than anyone thought, but he didn't ask for a transfer. He doesn't want a transfer.**

"**Fix this, Booth." It's a command spoken from the depths of friendship and hormones with a tinge of desperation. Her voice drops to a whisper. "Brennan's erected a fortress."**

**As he hangs up and tries to map out his next move, Fletcher's words hit him. He knows they're not true, but they somehow feel true. They must feel true to Bones. **

"**You're nothing but a hound dog."**


	20. Let it be

_**Let It Be:**_** The Beatles**

A billionaire several times over. Three doctorates. A pregnant wife. A new house.

And with all that going for him, he still found the idea of a field trip to a crime site thrilling.

Granted he was at the end of a trail of run-off in a pond of what the FBI agent in charge labeled "muck"— a term that rankled him—still, he rather enjoyed field trips even if they meant he had to break out the gum boots and sift through stagnant water for slime, bugs and human skeletal remains.

Well, to be honest, he was analyzing some of the samples. He'd overseen the retrieval of soil, water and insect samples from inside the mine at a relatively safe distance. A touch of claustrophobia had caught up with him at the thought of being underground and he had left that work to the FBI techs.

Left to his own devices for much of the afternoon, he'd been able to amass more samples at the pond under an open sky.

The run-off from the mineshaft might have been of sufficient volume to carry off bone fragments, many of which he ascertained to be from rodents or birds trapped within the shaft then washed into the pool. A few larger bones—possibly phalanges—had made their way down to his position.

"Dr. Hodgins? You need a refill?"

Agent Ryan Paxton had long since changed out of his suit coat into an FBI windbreaker and was making his way toward him, holding out a cup of coffee. "It's no better than what they had an hour ago, but at least it's freshly-made crap."

The man had been remarkably resilient given the reactions from both Dr. B and Cam. Paxton sat down on the log that Hodgins had been using as a seat whenever he decided to better examine his samples or simply take a break.

"Our Dr. Brennan has determined that we have 3 sets of remains," he said. "And Dr. Saroyan is signing off on transporting everything back to the Jeffersonian."

Hodgins expected no less. But there was something about how the man had made Dr. B "_our_ Dr. Brennan" just felt odd. He was trying _too_ hard.

"She's something else, isn't she?" Paxton nodded toward the mine where Brennan had been at work all afternoon. "Works hard. They told me she's got a kind of tunnel vision about crime sites and such, but man," he brushed a small _Tapinoma sessile _from the edge of his coffee cup, "she's intense. Opinionated, too."

Hodgins knew the intensity of one Temperance Brennan. She had insisted on going into the mine shaft to oversee the retrieval of one set of remains only to discover at least two more sets of skeletal remains that had been missed by the first responders.

"God, Booth's got one of the best solve rates in the bureau for . . . ." He stopped short of finishing that thought. "You know, Doc, I could get used to this."

_This_ consisted of a half dozen FBI techs scouring the mine site for forensic evidence while the best the Jeffersonian offered supervised or plunged deep within the mine itself in an effort to make it give up its secrets.

"Don't forget, you still have to solve the case," Hodgins said.

"It's much easier to do that when you've got the A team at your beck and call," Paxton said. "Just got to know how to keep a finger on the pulse of it all."

Something about how the FBI agent spoke made Hodgins feel even more unsettled. It was all so new. To know that they would be working with someone other than Booth on all future cases. No explanations. No goodbyes.

Of course, it was another example of the pure idiocy of government bodies that used quotas and something akin to actuary tables to determine the life expectancy of a science and law enforcement marriage. No one had consulted anyone at the Jeffersonian—no one, including, it would seem, the person most affected by the change, Dr. B.

He decided to change directions. "You really think this is a mob dump?"

Hodgins wasn't sure how he felt about working mob cases what with Angela in the last trimester of the pregnancy and the air of danger that had accompanied the last time they'd taken on such a case. Dr. B had been shot at, abducted and practically filleted before being served up to ravenous dogs. It had taken a Herculean effort by Booth to leave the hospital and follow the trail of bread crumbs to rescue her.

"Gotta be. Moe, Larry and Curly there are Frankie Spinoza, Marty Marzetti and Gino Fortuna. Gonna testify against their guys to our guys and someone decided they didn't need those wise guys anymore."

Paxton told his story with an odd accent that Hodgins discerned to be his version of something Sicilian.

"Whack 'em, dump 'em in an abandoned mine shaft until some poor mining engineers come out to inspect the place and. . . . Bada bing, you've got a movie of the week." Paxton smiled, pleased with himself.

"You still have to figure out who did it." Hodgins looked up from his coffee and surveyed the scene. Some of the techs were making a sweep of the area to the north of the pond. "Besides, there's no actual proof that the three bodies are actually your wise guys."

Paxton made a sound that seemed overly confident coming from the man who was a first-timer with the Jeffersonian lab and its band of scientists. From what he could glean, the man was about Booth's age, but had never really been pressed into service as the lead in a murder investigation.

His conspiracy radar was tingling.

"It's easy. Michael 'Calzone' Esperanto wants his life of ease on top of the heap and he orders the hit to silence our three Stooges who are bound and determined to take him down a peg. There's some connection between Esperanto and this mine, I'm sure of it."

"Don't let Brennan hear you talk like this." Hodgins took a long sip of the coffee if only to warm himself. It was little more than colored water with a hint of coffee flavor. "She doesn't like. . . ."

"Conjecture? Speculation?" Paxton interrupted. "Positing a scenario?" He shook his head and drained his own coffee cup. "Booth might have been humoring her, helping her get material for her books, but this is a new era and frankly, she's gonna have to change with the times."

oOo

It just had to be a conspiracy. Three hours to the crime site and another three into gathering evidence had given him plenty of time to think it through. It just had to be.

Granted he hadn't given too much thought to conspiracies of late, what with Angela and baby-Hodgins-to-be demanding so much of his attention these days. But to remove Booth from their little squint family in such a way without warning—something was off. Way off.

He glanced at his boss, Dr. B. She stood like a _Betula occidentalis_in the stream of people packing up equipment. Her cheek sported a black smudge made, more than likely, as she was trying to brush aside the hair that escaped her ponytail. The emblems on her Jeffersonian jumpsuit had practically disappeared under the layer of grime from forays into the mine.

Standing next to her, deep in conversation, Dr. Saroyan, by contrast, looked almost pristine, her jumpsuit relatively untouched. Her body, a fleshy one, had been the first in the mine, at the top of the shaft.

Brennan had crawled the dozen or so yards of tunnel to examine the site and had helped retrieve the body. Scratch that. Bodies. She'd seen something amiss in the tunnel and had had to argue with Special Agent Ryan Paxton about how to continue the search for additional bodies.

_Insistence_. That was a loaded word. It had practically become a shouting match between Brennan and Paxton. Cam had engineered a fragile peace between the two, but Hodgins knew his boss. He knew just how much Brennan hated being under the thumb of the mindless automatons running the FBI.

She hated working with anyone other than Booth.

He hated it, too. He missed Booth. At least Booth trusted them to do their jobs and gave them free rein to gather evidence as they saw fit. Paxton had insisted on running the show and Brennan had bristled at where he was taking them.

Certainly three bodies at a crime scene probably constituted a conspiracy of some sort, he thought. But the idea of breaking up one of the best crime solving teams along the Eastern seaboard made no sense.

Unless someone wanted to cover up a crime.

Now _that_ was a conspiracy theory with some real merit. If Paxton was right and this was a body dumpsite for the mob, there might be dozens more bodies strewn. . . .

"Dr. Hodgins?"

He turned to see Lisa Zacaria, one of the FBI techs. She glanced back toward where the FBI forensic unit van was parked.

He'd already stowed his own gear, placing his equipment in their designated spots in the marked racks within the Medico-Legal Lab truck. He was about to pack away his samples.

"Agent Paxton is insisting that we procure all evidence and take everything back to our lab to process." She looked uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, Dr. Hodgins, but he's the agent in charge and what he says goes."

Hodgins ignored Zacaria's pleading eyes and scanned the area for Cam and Brennan.

He was right. It _just had to be_ a conspiracy.

oOo

He'd learned to give them space. Walking in on Angela with Brennan in either of their offices when they were having one of _those talks_ could be fraught with unseen dangers.

Not that he minded discussions about sex.

It was the other discussions that he really didn't need to hear. Generalizations about men. Theories about how fragile men's psyches were. How they acted. Why they acted the way they did.

Granted, he had already heard the theories from his wife, usually when she was discussing the sex lives of her friends.

But walking in on Angela and Brennan exchanging notes could fire up the libido or leave a man wondering if he'd ever be the same again.

That's why he had approached Brennan's office with some trepidation that morning. It was best to be on one's toes when you had a hormonal wife whose emotions could change with the speed of a lightning strike. And a boss whose own emotional balance had seemed to be off of late.

But Brennan was actually smiling, her mood mirrored in Angela's. "Welcome back, Dr. B," he offered. "It's good to have you back."

The smiles were actually infectious. Brennan's smile, somewhat shy, seemed to hold the promise of some great secret. Angela's was, well, powered by pregnancy and the fact that her friend seemed to be happy _and late_ to work.

"So, Sweetie, who is he?"

"I don't need to be here for this, do I?" He didn't _need to know_ about Brennan's sex life.

On the scent of a love trail, Angela could be relentless. "Just tell me you were late because you were getting some."

"All right, I think I'll go now," he said. "I just wanted to welcome you back after being a pawn to the great military complex's assault on. . . ."

"Jack!"

With hand on hip, Angela looked adorable. Sexy even. He wondered what look he could get if he really told her what he thought of Homeland Security.

Brennan just looked. . . .

Well, he would have thought she might have lapsed into perplexed or annoyed, but that smile had not left her. It seemed to color the room.

"Sweetie, I can wait you out."

"I didn't sleep with anyone last night, Angela."

"That doesn't account for the 2 weeks you were gone." Angela took a seat in front of Brennan's desk. "You haven't been this relaxed in a very long time. _A very long time_."

"Booth picked me up from the airport," Brennan supplied finally. "We spent the afternoon together."

Brennan's revelation elicited an even bigger watt smile from his wife and the inevitable barrage of questions. And despite Angela's onslaught, Brennan seemed. . . at peace.

He was about to make a U-turn and avoid the awkwardness of eavesdropping, when he found his way was blocked.

Dr. Saroyan was leading a well-dressed, middle-aged man with quick green eyes into Brennan's office. The man appeared curious while Saroyan seemed nervous. She did that thing she usually did when she was about to deliver some bad news. She stood stock-still then bent slightly at the waist while clapping her hands together. It reminded him of the gesture of the _Potos flavus _he'd seen on an _Animal Planet _program_. _

"Dr. Brennan? Dr. Hodgins? Angela? I'd like to introduce FBI Agent Ryan Paxton."

The man had the air of a vacuous government employee. But he knew exactly who to focus in on immediately.

"Dr. Brennan?" He held out his hand. "I look forward to working with you as the new permanent liaison to the Jeffersonian."

Brennan's smile disappeared. "No, you mean, temporary liaison," Angela was trying to erase the look on Brennan's face. "Booth's on restricted duty because of his wrist." She looked from Brennan to Cam to Paxton. Then at him. "Cam?"

Cam took a deep breath and nodded. "I was informed that Booth transferred to fraud, effective this morning," she said.

In the space of seconds, Brennan's expression took on a pointedly steely look.

"What the hell did you do to him?"

He couldn't help it. The words poured out of him bringing a sharp slap on his arm from Angela and a disapproving look from Cam and a darker look from Brennan.

"I was thinking I would come over and introduce myself, maybe set a lunch date, but as I've already told Dr. Saroyan, we're needed for a case." He shifted his body taking in everyone. "I've already given the good doctor here the location, so I guess I'll see you out there, Dr. Brennan." With a nod, Paxton was gone.

But the questions hadn't disappeared.

"Did Booth say anything to you, Dr. Brennan, about transferring?" Cam stood in the doorway, arms folded.

"No," Brennan said. She seemed shaken just as she had when the doctors informed them that Booth had died of a gunshot wound and for three weeks they had believed him dead. She had that same wild look in her eyes.

"Sweetie," Angela started, but Brennan wouldn't let anyone interfere with the walls she was erecting.

"I need to get my kit," she said as she slipped past Cam and out her office door.

oOo

"You know, wise guys."

Hodgins shook his head at the case the FBI agent was attempting to make with Brennan.

"Our three amigos over there. The three bodies. Three, what's it in Italian? Three Amarettos?"

The look of abject confusion on Brennan's face would have been funny had it not been for the utter lack of rational thought being employed by Agent Ryan Paxton to persuade her of just how right he was.

Brennan cast a look at him. "He's saying they're mobsters, Dr. B. Part of the Mafia."

While the look of confusion faded, she still looked annoyed. "You can't simply look at the bones and make an assumption that they are part of the Mafia. Or Italian."

"I get it, Doc. You don't want to jump to conclusions, but let's look at this objectively. You've got three males, all 35-40. I've got three wise guys, all males, all 35-40. Nice fit."

The confusion was back. And something else.

"That's one of the least objective things I've heard. Two of the males are in their 30s and. . . ."

"You can't be absolutely certain of age just looking at their bones." Paxton was adamant. "You'll need to take them back to the lab and run some tests before you're certain. I know that's how it works."

Hodgins exchanged looks with Cam. Brennan looked almost feral. The man had already proven that he should avoid adding anything to the gene pool, Hodgins thought. Cam looked horrified. Brennan simply plowed on.

". . .Mineral staining on the Ilium of the bottom set of remains would indicate that they would have been in contact with the ground to sustain that level of discoloration for at least eight to. . . ."

". . .Which fits the time frame, Doc. My wise guys disappeared nine months. . . ."

". . . But it doesn't account for the fact that the second and third set of remains. . . ."

". . . And I've got three bodies that fit the descriptions. You probably got the age wrong. . . ."

". . . Show clear racial markers that suggest all three of these. . . ."

Paxton held up his hand. "Whoa, there, Doc. I get it. We'll get the whole kit and caboodle back to the Jeffersonian where your coats can take a look at everything under your microscopes and you can let the suits," he said this indicating himself, "go out and gather the facts."

Brennan looked like she was ready to explode. Cam stepped in before Paxton was verbally or physically throttled.

"I'm afraid you don't understand, Agent Paxton," Cam said. "Dr. Brennan is trying to provide you with the facts. . . ."

"Yes, and I thank you for your time, today. I know that much more of the work will have to be conducted in the lab." He stood with his arms crossed in front of him. "I think we've reached an accommodation. We'll let the Jeffersonian in on some of the glory, let Dr. Hodgins here have his samples to analyze, and Dr. Brennan will remain in the lab."

It was meant to be a dismissal, but he had chosen to dismiss the wrong women.

"I'm afraid you don't understand, Agent Paxton," Cam began again, " Dr. Brennan. . . ."

"The second victim is African American," Brennan said. "Possibly mixed race. It is entirely possible that the first and third victims were Hispanic." She stood in rigid defiance of Paxton's theories, her hand firmly on her hip, daring him to knock down her facts. "That might dampen your enthusiasm for these men being the three wise men."

Hodgins suppressed the urge to correct her. Brennan had taken enough of a beating today. She stood practically grey from head to foot, her Jeffersonian jumpsuit covered in coal dust trying to convince some institutional moron that hard evidence trumped fuzzy theories and magical thinking.

Before Paxton could say anything more, or Brennan could hurl more logic at him, Cam interceded.

"What Dr. Brennan has told you is accurate, Agent Paxton. The three males are all closer to 30 years of age and all have racial markers that suggest two are Hispanic and one is African American. None of them match the description of your missing victims."

Paxton said nothing, just stood with a grimace painting his features.

"Coats don't belong in the field," Paxton said finally. "I'm not Booth indulging your need to add field work to your already impressive resume, Doc." He glared right back at Brennan. "They tell me that the Jeffersonian works as a team. You want Dr. Hodgins here to be part of that team and examine the evidence, then the deal is this: you in the lab, me in the field and we use our cell phones to keep in touch." For emphasis, he pulled out his phone and waved it at her. "Well, we use our cell phones except in backwater holes like this that have no cell service. Comprehende?"

Brennan took a step toward Paxton. "Can your cell phone tell you how these men died or who they are?" The FBI crime scene techs were milling about, listening in on the argument. "Can you ascertain time of death using your cell phone?" Brennan had leaned in and seemed coiled, ready to spring on Paxton, but Cam interceded.

"Dr. Brennan?" Cam held up a pass card. "There's a hot shower and a set of clean clothes for you at the motel up the road. The FBI technicians are still loading equipment and we won't be out of here for another half hour." Before Brennan could launch another protest, she added quickly, "And I'll oversee them and make sure that everything is done to your standards."

Brennan gave Paxton another scowl. "Dr. Brennan?" Cam's tone brooked no nonsense and Brennan seemed to think better of an all-out assault on the man's faulty reasoning and sighed before turning and walking away.

Paxton took only a minute or two watching her retreat before he launched his own attack. "Get this, Dr. Saroyan. I am in charge of the investigation. And you need to let her know that in no uncertain terms," he said. "I can see why Booth wanted out of working with her. What a diva. Everything her way."

The last words were uttered with such disdain that Jack considered his own frontal assault on the man.

"Let it be," she said as she put herself between him and the agent.

"We do things her way because they are the right way, Agent Paxton." Cam sized him up. "She's set the standard for the Jeffersonian and I would greatly appreciate it if you would remember that."

"I just want you to come out to the crime scene," retorted Paxton, "and give me what I want."

"What you want?" It was Cam's turn to be livid. "What you want is for us to ignore the facts we've determined in order to fit the case as you would have it, not as it truly is. If you want to continue to work with the Jeffersonian and drag my forensic anthropologist or any of us out to a crime scene to gather evidence and present our findings, then you will give our facts every shred of respect they deserve."

Paxton seemed unfazed. "You get respect when you earn respect," he countered. "You need to know that I'm running the investigation. I call the shots. I just want your information, that's all. I don't need your theories or her attitude. Just your information, Doc."

"Then why aren't you listening to them, Ryan?"

He stood almost larger than life, a real FBI agent, not one pretending to be one.

"Booth?"

"Hey man," Hodgins said. "The FBI couldn't get someone better than Dudley DoRight here?"

Booth leaned forward, one hand on his hip, his look intent and somewhat menacing. "These are my people," he said to Paxton, "until I get back from my temporary assignment. . . ."

"That's not what I was told this morning, Booth."

"Check it out with Deputy Director Hacker," Booth offered, his eyes boring into Paxton's. "He doesn't want anyone interfering with a 96% solve rating."

Hodgins had seen lizards slink off, but they had nothing on Special Agent Ryan Paxton. The three of them watched him huff like a _Pogona vitticeps _ then scurry off into a bank of FBI technicians.

"What the hell is happening, Seeley?" Cam cocked her head toward the departing agent. "Ryan said you'd been transferred."

He sighed and shook his head. "I didn't ask for a transfer, Cam. It's politics, way, way above my pay grade." He looked around, a bit worried. "Where's Bones?"

Cam told him. "This must be the only place in America without cell phone service or a decent landline." She watched as a black SUV with government plates practically roared past them, Paxton in the driver's seat. The agent definitely looked like he'd backed into the quills of a _Hystrix cristata_ . "Or I would have filled up your voicemail." She paused and returned his worried look. "She's pretty upset, Seeley."

"You mind if I take Bones back with me?" Booth asked.

"If you go there, I'd be ready to duck, man," Hodgins offered.

Both Cam and Booth turned toward him. "What?" asked Cam.

"She's got a mean right hook," he said. Off Cam's warning look, he continued. "What? I saw her deck Booth. We all did."

Booth shrugged. "I'll take my chances," he said as he headed toward his SUV.

Cam stood silently for a moment beside the Medico-Legal Lab truck as they watched the FBI techs pack the rest of their gear into their vehicles. One by one the vans began to pull out of the makeshift parking lot toward the highway. Booth's black SUV headed in the opposite direction toward town.

Hodgins dug out the keys from his pocket. "Ready?" He made a move toward the driver's side.

Cam nodded once, then touched his arm, stopping him. "Dr. Hodgins," she said, "you know, I think I really would like to hear any conspiracy theories you might have that could explain all this."


	21. Born to run

_**Born to Run:**_** Bruce Springsteen**

**Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has found their way here and not gotten too tangled up in my varying POVs to become hopelessly lost. Thank you, too, to everyone gracious enough to read and to leave a review or send me a private message. I do appreciate the encouragement.**

**Writing is therapeutic for me as well as an opportunity to stretch my creative muscles. I enjoy trying to tell the story of the Bs through many eyes. You might find some of the Show truth wriggling its way into my story's truth. Fan fiction writers, I've discovered, sometimes take on the hero's role in their attempt to right the wrongs they see on screen. This is not really meant to be a heroic effort, merely one that entertains. Please, enjoy!**

_Mighty oaks from little acorns grow._

Her father had used that expression when she was young more than once as she remembered and it seemed appropriate, somehow, today. She knew the meaning behind the metaphor—great things may come from small, insignificant beginnings. She reminded herself of that truism as an adult whenever Hodgins' entomology studies provided valuable clues in a case or the most microscopic of fracture patterns elicited information regarding a weapon.

Little oaks. . . . She knew that so much, invisible to the naked eye, could affect and inform her world. And so much seen, touched, heard, or sensed in some way could be toxic to her happiness.

"Thank you," she said quietly, the hurts of the day eased somewhat because Booth had made a trek to the crime scene to assure all of them ("to assure you, Bones, because I know you don't jump to conclusions, but I still didn't want to wait to tell you that this has been on huge, colossal error") that he hadn't deserted them.

She had laid her ear to his shoulder and heard his heartbeat and felt his warmth and knew that in the substance of him she could trust. ("Do you know you're right or do you hope you're right?")

He'd held her in that run-down motel on the edge of that dying town and reminded her that people cannot control anything more than their own actions. ("I don't seem to be fully in control of my actions right now.")

Pulling away, they'd kissed, a joining together. "I may not be in control of what I'm assigned to, Bones," he'd said, "but I do know what I want."

She returned his look, her own desire warm and insistent. The kisses became demanding from both of them and she felt the back of her legs press against the bed. All she had to do was bend a bit. 

But the scientist in her could not allow the woman in her to bend to this. She had thought this an inevitability once they began kissing the night before, but circumstances had changed. There was a new variable she had not considered. A variable she had pointedly ignored.

Pushing him away gently, she told him instead, "I don't want to do this here."

"I have to go back," he whispered against the skin of her cheek. "I might still get a call on the fraud case tonight."

As he released her, as her heart rate returned to a resting rate, she considered more of the variables that litter their lives. _They are bound by a sense of duty, of proof, that they are worthy individuals and each case reminds them of their own pain of having no one as an advocate. They are bound not to repeat their pasts by trying to give back the dead their voices._

_But the past colors the present and tints the future and each shade can be traced back to some event past._

And they repeat their past.

"Hodgins said that I should've ducked," he said as he held open the door as they closed the door on a misunderstanding that could have severed their personal lives even as it threatened their professional careers. "He said you were going to deck me again for this."

_The past colors the present and tints the future and each shade can be traced back to some event past._

"I can't say that I hadn't considered decking Agent Paxton, especially when he intimated that I did not know how to properly determine the age of a skeleton."

He'd quirked his lips in a half smile.

"But I was not completely cognizant of what I wanted to do to you if it was indeed true that you had asked to be reassigned."

"So you weren't sure if you were going to hit me?" He unlocked the back of the SUV and she placed her rolled-up jumpsuit inside. She had carefully rolled it up, inside-out, the coal dust trapped within the layers of fabric.

"It was not something I was contemplating," she said.

"Good." He was trying to make light of the situation as sometimes he would as if humor could erase the hurt and anger and uncertainty of the day. "Because you know, Bones, you do have a mean right."

oOo

She can sometimes feel the energy of that blow pulsing down her arm when she connects her right fist to an opponent as she spars during a karate class. Each blow melds into the next and none of them is exactly like that one that connected with Booth's face. In her anger, she could not really record the minute impressions left by the blow.

But she sometimes feels the same anger.

It jars her just how emotions can command one's actions, overwhelming the brain with a flood of neurotransmitters. Her emotions poisoned her relationship with Russ for almost 15 years. Her emotions poisoned her relationship with her father when she learned he was alive and well and had been a murderer and a thief. Her emotions poisoned her relationship with Booth for over a year.

She can feel the energy of that blow at the cemetery—when Booth had been resurrected like a modern-day Lazarus (yes, she has read the Bible in an effort to understand unintelligible)—and it only haunts her now.

All day long as she was sifting through coal dust and separating bone from earth, she had tried to understand who was separating whom? Had Booth truly wanted her, but changed his mind? Had his kisses been a message signaling an end rather than a beginning? Had the signals of desire become entangled in those damned demarcation lines setting forth the boundaries of their professional ("Sex changes everything") lives?

As he pursued a sexual relationship with Camille Saroyan ("The FBI has rules") and told her he was not interested in pursuing one with her ("There are just some people you can't sleep with, Bones") she felt no anger, just the sense of having lost something. As he pursued a sexual relationship with Hannah Burley ("I love her") and told her he was not interested in pursuing one with her ("She's not a consolation prize"), she felt no anger toward him, just the overwhelming sense of having lost something.

And sadness. A deep and abiding sadness that revisited her today to taunt her and make her question just how anyone could function when emotions seem to command one's whole being.

Her mind, a steely vault of information gleaned over thousands of hours of observation, had somersaulted through inductive and deductive calculations, drawing upon conversations carefully organized and stowed away (_"There's this line, and we can't cross it. You know what I'm saying?")_ to be revisited when it had gathered more data until she had come to a conclusion. And given the new evidence, she can only calculate one single truth in a day of gathering truths.

"How can we be together," she asks finally, her voice clear and resolute in the humming SUV, "when the FBI will only separate us?"

oOo

She has never had a long-term romantic relationship. Dr. Michael Stires does not count _("You flinched, Michael"_) and Peter was little more than a mistake _("We fought all the time and don't like each other anymore."_) Sully… Sully sailed off on a boat he'd renamed after her _("Rationally thinking, I want to go. And I know I should go but...I can't."_)

She can sense Booth's reluctance to traverse this avenue of thinking. Sitting next to him in the SUV as the darkness gathers, she knows that her ability to read his face is compromised, but she tries to listen carefully to the tone of his voice, the inflection in the words, the selection of phrases.

"Is this really what you want?"

The words cascade out as a waterfall of her self doubt and Booth seems to relax, but she is uncertain. Is she applying her own brand of hope to his demeanor, invalidating her conclusions? Or can anyone—even she, Temperance Brennan—remain completely objective in the face of such great emotional upheaval?

"Yes, yes, Bones. I want this. I want to be with you." His words cut through the graying light and provide a ray of hope. ("Do you know you're right or do you hope you're right?") "We'll make it work. We'll work it out with the bureau. Maybe Caroline could help us. Definitely Cam. You want this to work, don't you?"

Impatient patience, Angela has called it. She has waited out Hannah and his anger and the doubt and it comes down to her making a decision and taking a chance and choosing to be a gambler rather than a scientist and embracing entropy and casting aside regrets for that one moment when the universe spoke and she listened.

"Yes."

oOo

They drive along the highway, away from the coal mines where time and pressure and heat turned peat into lignite and lignite into coal. They drive along the highway, together, where time and pressure and heat have turned a partnership into a friendship into something more.

"Bones, talk to me."

It has been a day to examine not only the remains of lives cut short and left, unceremoniously, within a shaft gouged through the earth, but a day to examine her own direction. She scoured a dusty cavern for skeletons and argued for Paxton to listen to her findings and she forged several possible conclusions to her relationship with Booth ("I am an excellent multitasker") based on faulty evidence and she simply needs to understand everything as fully as possible to back up her conclusion.

"When did you know?" She likes the accuracy of a date and a time.

She is a scientist first. An observer. A gatherer of evidence. From him she needs his full report.

And he tells her. He tells her about the time he was with Cam but he wanted to stay with her and finish a report and he didn't care if they ate stale donuts or stole Thai food from each other's plate.

And he tells her. He tells her about the time when he stood outside the diner and touched her chin and told her he was part of her family ("There's more than one kind of family, Bones") and he felt like she was family as he and Parker watched her cannonball into the pool, destroying his sandwich and stealing his heart. Again.

And he tells her about his coma dream, and laying under the stars, and almost kissing her near a mummy's remains, and. . . .

And he tells her.

oOo

She knows that his report is incomplete and the conclusions, whatever they might be, can only be tainted by presenting part of the data. Hers is a curious mind and she tries to understand what has always been unclear to her. How can someone love someone in an "atta girl kind of way?" What did you really mean when you said, "What's ours is ours?" How can love last 30 years, or 40 or 50 when you can easily move on? And who do you love the most?

Booth, she knows, is a good driver, but his grip on the wheel and his clenched jaw show signs that her questions in the drive for truth might be challenging his skills with distracting emotions.

"You know, I could drive. I'm an excellent driver."

"Yeah," Booth retorts, his eyes firmly on the road before them, "you're very good at driving a man crazy."

But she cannot help but gather the information so that it might be analyzed and cataloged and mined for all its truths.

oOo

For much of the day she worked in a narrow space, fighting back waves of claustrophobia and confusion and doubt as she tried desperately to replace them with an impassive professionalism. For much of the day she unearthed and cataloged and analyzed and she cannot simply turn off her thinking.

"Will you _move on_ when you discover that I am inadequate?"

She is a writer and she should know how to phrase the question to elicit the best response. She is a teacher and she knows the value of wait time.

But she is also a woman and her body is pulsing with doubt and fear.

"_When_? God, no, Bones. You are not inadequate."

Booth has pulled onto a rest stop and they sit in the darkened SUV, the night broken by streaks of light from the passing cars. Voices in the distance are muffled and there is the buzz from the light overhead. A three-hour trip back to the lab has grown into a five-hour trip and they are still an hour from Washington, D.C.

He shakes his head, his face moving in and out of the shadows. "No." He sighs and she wonders if this, too, is one of those questions that frustrates him. "Neither one of us was born to run, Bones. But we both ran. You to Malapoopoo and me to Afghanistan."

"My trip was purely for scientific in. . . ."

"_We ran_. We ran because it hurt too much to stay."

She has no proof except his words and somehow she knows they have validity.

"I'm not going anywhere. My home is here. My life is here." His hands are wrapped around hers and while she cannot see the finer details of his face in the shadowy light, she wants to have faith if only to believe.

"With you, Temperance."

She will believe. She will trust this man who took a slap she deserved, who had been blown up in her stead, who had taken a bullet meant for her.

She will believe she is enough for him.

"We should go, Booth."

As he pulls the SUV back onto the highway, she knows one more Gordian knot that is troubling her and she exposes it, hoping he will help her unravel it so that it makes sense to her.

"If love is transcendent, Booth," she asks, her curiosity to be served at all costs, "then wouldn't you still love Hannah?"

oOo

"I simply followed the evidence, Booth."

She watched his profile for any signs that he was wavering from the course they had set earlier. But thankfully he was considering her words carefully and for that moment, she wanted to believe that they would be all right.

Beneath her the road that had seemed pitted with a kind of cruel angst this morning had smoothed out considerably. She eased back into the seat of the SUV and closed her eyes.

They'd just pulled out of a rest stop where she had posed her question. She had tried to unravel the Gordian knot of their relationship with a single question that became a series of questions and observations.

"I wasn't deliberately trying to hurt you, Bones." He let the words settle around them. "I wasn't trying to confuse you."

The words seemed strange with her eyes closed, almost like hearing her parents' voices in her bedroom late at night when darkness surrounded and she could take comfort in knowing they were in the room down the hallway and Russ was next door. She opened her eyes and peered carefully at Booth.

In the gathering night, she could not make out the finer details of his face, the musculature that she could sometimes read with an ease born of years working together. But she could still make out the general contours of his facial features and she could read what was there.

"Neither was I, Booth."

The tension between them shifted again. It had been shifting ever since he met up with her at the Rainbow Motel and convinced her that he had not requested a transfer from investigating homicides and being her partner. It had ebbed and flowed with a kind of gracelessness as their words bounced around the inside of the SUV as they tried to salve old wounds but only seemed to open up what she had thought were long-healed scars.

"It's just," he paused and she wanted to fill in the silence with pink noise if only to drown out the doubts it seemed to invite, "you're you."

"Who else would I be?"

She counted fractions of miles and estimated their speed based on how quickly these passed, then she glanced at the speedometer to check her accuracy. She also checked on Booth who, in his long silence, seemed to have lost his train of thought.

Only an hour from the lab, he finally spoke.

"You have three doctorates. You're a best-selling novelist. You know things. . . ."

"Objectively, those are all true, Booth." The mile markers passed by them. "I don't understand what you are saying and I usually can make out some semblance of what you are trying to tell me."

The sound he made was a cross between a strangled groan and the impatient hiss he'd sometimes make when she said something he did not particularly like.

"I'm trying to understand," she said. Booth's jaw clenched and she could observe his Pterygoid muscles contracting beneath the layer of flesh. "But it's hard to understand messages that are contradictory in nature."

He laughed. _It is good to hear him laugh, _she thought._ Scientific inquiry can be taxing to the unscientific mind_, she remembered from a lecture long ago.

"You're trying to talk yourself out of this."

"No, Booth." She simply needs to know what components make up the constants in this experiment they are about to embark upon and she simply needs to understand as much as she can so that the constants can be constants and the variables can be dealt with as they come.

"I simply need to. . . ." She lets the words trail because she does not know how to express the emotions that are coursing through her veins and tangling her thoughts and cramping her mind.

"You don't want to stop being the scientist," he whispers into the night. He is right. "And even though I am a constant and I will be a constant in your life, Bones, you don't want this to become a gamble."

The FBI has reminded her that something can be taken from her in the bite of a bullet or the spur of a moment and she does not want to experience the heart crushing pain of emotions that she cannot harness betraying her. Emotions poisoned her relationship with Russ. Emotions poisoned her rela. . . .

He pulls her hand into his. "Stop."

The miles rush past them and she tries to weigh the evidence and come to a conclusion that is not tainted by emotions.

"I'm not good at relationships, Booth," she finally says to break the silence.

They are a few blocks from the Jeffersonian and she wants desperately to return there ("your house of reason, Bones") but Booth takes a different turn. She makes no comment.

"I'm not good at relationships either, it turns out."

He is circling the Jeffersonian with the vehicle. They are winding around the area, spiraling, spiraling closer.

"Then you want to, what, Booth? Be bad at relationships together?"

Somehow he has found the entrance to the parking structure and made the turn that will take them into the loading dock area, closer to the lab.

"Yes."

"That's not rational."

"Love isn't a series of equations that line up with a perfect answer. We are the sum total of our pasts. But we can't change our pasts." He paused. "As much as I would like to."

He parks the SUV next to the Medico-Legal Lab truck whose engine has grown cold in the hours they've been away. He shuts off the engine.

"Every day when you and I solve a murder, we are trying to alter some part of the future." The lights here wash everything around them in a neon glow. "When we first started, we had no expectation that we could solve a murder together. We simply combined our skills and our abilities to pursue a common cause."

"So being together is a common cause?"

"Yeah." He grinned.

"Despite all the mistakes?" _Despite all the wayward emotions? The missed opportunities? The labyrinth that seems to be the human heart? _

"Yeah."

He draws her into a kiss that, irrationally as it might seem, holds a promise.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"For what?"

"For everything."

"I'm sorry, too."

"For everything?"

"Yeah." His lips caress hers. "But we finally got here."

She takes comfort in his arms, in his answers, in the knowledge that they are in this together.

Together.

"Booth?" Her voice is a whisper in the dark. "People really can't break the laws of physics when they make love."

"No?" His voice is a whisper in the dark, a comforting word against the unknown.

"But I'd like to try."


	22. Be my baby

_**Be My Baby:**_** The Ronettes**

He really should have been better prepared.

Really.

Better prepared.

He'd known her for some 7 years and had fantasized for much of that stretch of 2555 days—_well, he'd turned off some of those fantasies when he'd been with other women, Cam and definitely with Hannah, so it hadn't really been that many days_—but he should have just been better prepared.

When it happened, and it took a much shorter time than he had thought it would, he thought he would have all the mechanics down. He'd had many lovers over the years, many women who had pursued him, so he knew how to smooth the way, ease the transition between one mode and the other, but nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared him.

He really didn't know much about relationships, turns out.

At least not with a woman he affectionately called, Bones.

oOo

They'd returned to her apartment after a benefit at a fancy schmancy ball held at the museum, her dress a slinky deep purple number that graced her curves and did not threaten the standards of Jeffersonian decorum for being cut too low in the front _(although Angela had offered to provide her with a temporary tattoo on her right breast 'to ride the crests' as she put it.)_ He'd wondered at the pause between Angela's suggestion and Brennan's dismissal of it for the hundredth time that evening, the thoughts feeding the fantasies he'd had the moment he saw her in the dress. His fantasies, of course, had been helped oh, so, so much by the reality he'd seen and sampled since they'd become lovers when he'd realized she'd beaten him to the door of her apartment and had already opened it only to undo the straps of the dress and let it puddle at her feet.

That's when the stumbling had begun.

To be fair, that's when _his_ stumbling began. He practically tumbled into the apartment and shut the door against prying neighbors who might see a world-famous forensic anthropologist and best-selling novelist in a sheer slip of a slip standing in the middle of her living room.

She did things like that.

Surprising things.

She could stand half-naked in her living room and look adorably clueless about why it might affect a man so.

"You said you wanted me out of this dress the moment we got back."

Then she smiled.

A man could get lost in that smile.

It wasn't the come-hither smile of a coy woman. It wasn't the innocent-but-come-and-get-me smile of some manipulative vixen. It wasn't the catch-me-if-you-can smile of a woman who wanted to prolong the chase.

No. It was an unabashedly, I-love-you-and-I-want-to-make-love-to-you smile that only Bones could give.

And so he stumbled in, his feet suddenly too big for walking properly.

At almost-but-not-quite 40, he really shouldn't be so affected by a woman. One month into his relationship with Hannah, he hadn't been so taken with moments like these. He knew he shouldn't make those comparisons, because it seemed like he was comparing hot apple pie to a cold PopTart, but the thoughts just flickered into his consciousness unbidden and he tried to ignore the small twinges of guilt that often accompanied them.

So she could stand there, bend over and confirm that only the dress met the PG-17 standards of the Jeffersonian because the slip refused to be constrained by such artificial rules, and gather up the dress and fold it across the back of the couch. And in those moments—_those moments he hadn't really had with other women_—he seemed to record details to be replayed later when he had downtime. Details like a small mark on her right breast that leaped into his consciousness in the form of. . . .

A dolphin?

"Oh, baby," he said, his voice reflecting the surprise that was Bones (_his Bones!)_, his arms opened wide to draw her into one of several clinches that evening, "be my baby!"

His attempt to sweep her into his arms failed because she'd turned her attention back to the dress and was folding it over her arm and placing that arm between them.

"Booth," she sighed (_the sigh of an enlightened woman_), "I really am not a baby."

oOo

While he had his right hand freed of the cast a few days ago, and the exercises Bones had insisted upon weeks ago had made the transition less painful, he was still seconded to the fraud unit trying to crack the phony gift card ring. She was still battling Paxton, although between the women of the squint squad, they'd practically beaten him into submission with a tough resolve to prove themselves at every turn. Hodgins had been their more-than-willing accomplice. The three Mafiosos became three unfortunate gang members who had tried to challenge the leadership. A body part Paxton wanted desperately to be that of a missing young starlet on loan to the Kennedy Center had turned out to be that of a missing runaway. A fatal car explosion outside the Serbian embassy had no terrorist leanings as Paxton had fervently hoped, simply poor maintenance and poorer timing.

"So when are you back in the fold?" Hodgins asked. The bug man had been observing a small black wingy thing emerging from a small sleeping bag thingy and had been playing it on a huge monitor so the bug what's-it looked as if it could devour a small cat. "Paxton just sucks, man."

Even though he was spending most of his nights and mornings with Bones, the lab beckoned with additional opportunities to spend time with her. He'd bullied his way back into the murder investigations in an advisory position, but with his attention still turned toward fulfilling his obligations to Fletcher, his involvement mostly seemed confined to making sure the squints didn't make Paxton the centerpiece of a perfect murder.

"Soon," he said. "Soon."

Cam had simply rolled her eyes when he had tried that on her. Angela had put the baby in one arm, a hand on her hip and given him a withering look. Sixteen hours of labor gave her every right to dispense looks like that.

He didn't know who to feel more sorry for—Paxton or Hodgins.

But Hodgins seemed to accept his "soon" for what it was. "He tried to talk Cam into getting Brennan to contact her friend with the cadaver dog and go out looking for Jimmy Hoffa in Francis Scott Key Park." He adjusted the magnifying scope over his hatching bug. "Said he had a lead on the case."

He'd heard that one from Bones last night. It hadn't made sense then and it, well, it still made no sense. The man was just one note shy of being looney tunes.

"Guy should be seeing Sweets for therapy. Not you guys."

Oh yeah. Therapy.

He'd like to blame that one on Angela, whose squeal when she heard that they were a couple, a real-live-honest-to-goodness-we-have-sex-and-everything couple, probably woke anything sleeping within 100 yards. Or he could have blamed it on Hodgins who pumped his right hand—still in its cast, mind you—for several minutes before tearing up and hugging Bones. Or Cam who hugged the stuffing out of both of them, whispering to him, "About time, big man," and whispering something to Brennan that she refused to disclose to him.

The only person he could blame for therapy was himself.

Or Daisy.

Definitely Daisy. He'd blamed her.

With an assist from himself.

"Sweets needs some pointers on relationships," he quipped to Hodgins.

"Yeah, well, man, he is good at his job," Hodgins offered. "But he's got some kind of issue with Dr. B."

As Booth wandered from the Ookey Room toward Brennan's office, he wondered for the 100th millionth time just what was the issue between them. Bones had balked at the idea of seeing Sweets in therapy until he had pointed out that the FBI powers-that-be already knew about their relationship, they were not currently working together because a certain prosecutor and a certain FBI agent had pulled strings, called in favors and generally made nuisances of themselves with anyone with clout to arrange his transfer to fraud without his consent, knowledge or what-have-you, and the FBI could keep them apart indefinitely, if not forever, in the same manner in which they had kept themselves apart over the years.

She'd seen the rationality of accepting therapy almost immediately.

But since they could barely intimidate Sweets anymore—"_you really aren't going to shoot him_, _Booth?"_—she had called people at the FBI (_because she had her own mutant string-pulling, favor-calling, nuisance-making abilities_) looking first for a psychologist younger than Sweets (_since a newer, younger Sweets-look-alike might be intimidated by them_), then to elicit a promise that if they completed therapy with their baby duck ("_everything, Booth, is finite, especially therapy"_) the FBI would ignore their personal relationship and restore their professional one.

It was hard to argue with a genius. And a 97% solve rate.

Booth checked her office and found nothing more than scant evidence that she'd been there. Even her laptop was cold. He wandered down toward Cam's Autopsy Room.

Cam was seated at her computer, happily plunking away on the keyboard, updating the squints on the latest double homicide they were investigating.

Luckily, this one happened a thousand years ago. No Paxton needed on this one.

No Paxton meant that she was definitely not composing some sort of master plan to end the agent's life and his reign of terror on the squints. Brennan had wrapped the case of the body at the end of the driveway with a discovery on the bones which should have won her an award just for the sheer innovation by which she came to that conclusion, buy Paxton had refused to take her findings to Caroline because he couldn't understand her reasoning. Inflamed, she had practically burst into her own version of spontaneous Brennan combustion, but Cam and the Hodgins' baby wailing had ended the stalemate, and in its own convoluted way, restored peace and tranquility to the Jeffersonian lab as Bones went to see to her god(_"I am an atheist and I think there should be a better term than this")_daughter and Paxton just went.

He was sure Angela had pinched the bottom of her baby to make her cry like that and save her best friend from a murder charge.

"Soooooo," Cam said, the single syllable taking on several additional shades, "when can you come back to be the Jeffersonian liaison, Seeley?"

"Cam," he started, "I thought you and Bones had Paxton trained." He smiled. The pathologist and the anthropologist had been engaged in a great war of minds (definitely a pretty lopsided battle, certainly something they could have won hands down without breaking a sweat) that had seen the FBI agent sometimes intimidated, sometimes lulled into a complacency before one or the other or both of them challenged his conclusions with indisputable fact.

"Trained, maybe." She stood up from her computer. "But he's far worse than Daisy could ever be."

There was that name again. He knew what trials they'd gone through with Paxton—hell, Cam, who had an infinite patience for the quirkiness of the revolving suite of interns and for her forensic anthropologist and bugs and slime guy, had almost come to blows with the man when he had insinuated that she might be better off taking care of her foster daughter than running a forensics lab given her inability to control Brennan.

Ironically, it had been Brennan who had saved Cam from assault charges.

But Daisy had been the catalyst for their latest bout of therapy and he wasn't really sure who was worst. The intern? The agent? The psychologist?

To his mind, it was a toss up.

"Who's the intern of the day?"

"Wendell's around," Cam said as they started toward Angela's office. "Bone storage, I think. Brennan and Angela have been holed up in Angela's office this morning working on facial reconstruction of our 1,000 year-old Vikings."

He spent a bit more time catching up with Cam about Paul and Michelle. He liked that about the lab. No one mentioned how he'd practically disappeared from the lab when he'd been with Hannah in some sort of "divorce settlement" that gave Brennan the squints and their "home" while he allowed her visitation rights to the Hoover, but only when it came to business. When it came to the personal, never the two would mix.

It had worked, in its way, to provide him a buffer between her world and his, but it had not erased their history or his feelings for his partner. Or hers for him.

Of that, he was glad. They were only a little more than a month into their relationship, and despite the banter that could turn to bickering then turn into glitches along the way, both of them seemed, well, happy. Ecstatic, actually.

"You look content, Seeley," Cam was saying. "Everything is good with you two."

"Maybe you don't want to work with Brennan. Could derail that contentment." The last she offered in the same, forthright manner Brennan might. But he could sense the unease that scenario posed to all of them. "I'm sure it would be better for your relationship, in some ways if. . . ."

"No," he said and watched as her whole demeanor changed. Relief. Everyone wanted the old team back and everyone seemed happy that both he and Brennan were adamant that nothing needed to change once Paxton became ancient history. "Business as usual," he said. "We're good at our jobs, Cam. We've lasted through her dad's arrest and other things," he said, "other things" code for significant others who were relatively insignificant now, "and we're good."

She nodded and smiled and he smiled back in a kind of pact he had with her and the rest of the squints. He and Bones had talked about it. They'd managed being blown up and hunted and kidnapped and shot and hurt emotionally by the other and they'd come through the other end, older, wiser and committed to keeping the professional and the personal separate, but equal.

"Good," Cam said, gave him a hug to accompany the smile and left him outside Angela's office.

Inside, the artist's room had become part work zone, part nursery. Brennan had equipped her friend's office with a crib, changing station, diaper depot and enough supplies to feed, fuss over and foster the care of a baby squint for some time. Brennan was standing, reading off numbers while patting her god_("if God really existed"_)child on the back. Angela was bent to the computer, her attention torn between the baby and her input.

A loud burp erupted from the littlest squint.

The baby's expression, part surprise at the enormity of the sound, part curiosity, slowly dissolved into a grin and a happy burble. Bones turned the baby around so she could beam her triumph over internal combustibles. The kidlet smiled at Booth.

"That," said Bones as she held the child to her chest, "was a fine eructation."

"Sweetie," Angela said, looking up at her best friend, "she burped."

"That's what I said."

Watching Bones with the little one brought a wave of nostalgia for when Parker was that small. And it elicited a memory of a word game that devolved into a promise to provide his stuff for her baby that had then become forgotten in the face of his brain tumor.

Almost two years had passed and for a moment, he thought he saw the same kind of wistfulness in Bones' face that he was feeling.

And then it was as quickly gone.

"Hey, Booth," Angela greeted him. "You make an arrest in your fraud case yet?"

Given the snail's pace of the case, and her earlier reactions to his predicament, a deflection was in order.

"How's your Viking? Got a face for him, yet?"

"You arrest anyone yet?" Angela was Mama Squint to the squints of Squintville and obviously brooked no distractions these days.

"Ange," he started, "I'm not calling the shots on this one."

She exchanged looks with Bones.

It might be true that the Jeffersonian crew might forgive him for not coming around the lab earlier, some of them just couldn't forget that he was in exile now.

"If it were up to me, I'd make the arrest."

The women exchanged another look.

"Can I?"

He held out his hands to Bones for the baby. Bones relinquished her reluctantly and he drew the baby to his face. She reached out her little hand to grab his nose and blew a raspberry,

"Baby hates the fraud case, too," Angela said.

oOo

"So, are there any more dolphins to look for, babe?"

She'd been reading when he came into the bedroom, and he had been watching her from the doorway for several minutes, the purely domestic scene still amazing to him.

Bones gave him that look—_that one_—that clearly disapproved of the use of the word, _babe_, but definitely had no problem with another dolphin hunt. Angela and Brennan had combined the other night to scatter a few more dolphins across the sea of her body making the search downright enjoyable.

"_You seemed particularly intrigued by the idea of a dolphin on my breast, Booth,"_ _she had told him, hours later, after he had made a thorough count of the dolphins Angela had drawn on her. _

"_Is this the semi-permanent, ain't-nothin'-gonna-wash-this-off-but-time-and-lots-of-elbow-grease paint Angela used on Parker?"_

_She'd squinted her eyes and wrinkled her nose at the use of "elbow grease," pointing out that there wasn't any such thing, but eventually he'd gotten a "yes" and the promise of several days of "connect the Cetaceans."_

Angela had been creative and Bones had been daring and together they'd managed to surprise him, a man who thought he knew and understood his squinty scientist so well. The Great Cetacean Count, of course, came on the heels of him describing the fraud case to her, including a cursory portrait of Tracy Lord, human tattoo canvas.

He knew more about tattoos and their origins in Eurasia and their continued use by indigenous people at the end of the recital_—spending time with Bones was bound to be educational—_but he hadn't realized just how much his involvement in the case was on everyone's minds. Even Caroline, who had championed the notion "_if they catch murderers in the same fashion as before, who cares who's sleeping with whom," _had left him less-than-subtle email messages when the conflicts between the squints and their semi-permanent, ain't-nothin'-gonna-get-rid-of-him-but-time-and-an-arrest-in-his-fraud-case FBI liaison had threatened the case against the Rodriguez Brothers. He'd been enduring daily messages from Caroline_—"Arrest anyone yet?"_—that had been poised to become hourly when the case against Gary Burlington had almost blown up in their faces because Paxton and Cam had differed on what the pathologist's report had meant.

"_Someone's done you a favor and provided you with ample reason to solve your case, cherie," she'd told him after cornering him in an elevator. "Your squints need you to keep them out of prison."_

He understood full well the implication although he doubted Paxton's murder would ever be pinned decisively on any of his people.

"Are you just going to stand there, Booth?" Bones' voice was finally cutting through his reverie. She fingered her book, the title of which eluded his comprehension. "Or are you coming to bed?"

He couldn't help it. He couldn't help but smile. She returned the smile and one thing led to another, as it usually did these days, and he was still trying to catch his breath when she surprised him yet again.

"I can help with the fraud case, Booth."

He blew out his last bit of air and breathed in deeply. He'd had sex with doctors before, women who knew secrets of the human body, but sex with a woman like Bones always seemed to take on a whole new dimension.

"I don't know if a whole lab of squints could help," he groaned as her fingers began a new assault. "It's not your kind of case."

"I can help, Booth." Her fingers tracing a new route along his body. "Let me help."

oOo

He'd deferred her offer that night and had given it little thought that morning as they tumbled out of bed, showered together—_saving resources and not saving resources at the same time_—and finally dressed before scrambling to make a morning therapy session with Sweets.

Bones had tried to argue that there was no need for therapy since they were not technically partners, but Sweets had invoked some picayune reason for the pre-partners therapy that had not satisfied her. But she'd soldiered on, clearly reluctant to let Sweets have any part in their fledgling relationship as a couple.

Therapy consisted mostly of Sweets wanting them to talk about their feelings and any conflicts they had as a couple. Since they were both deliciously happy, and since bantering sometimes led to bickering which could then lead to sex, feelings were generally positive and conflict resolution quite enjoyable.

Both he and Bones suspected Sweets was fishing for something else.

He dropped her off at the Jeffersonian with a promise for lunch when he turned back to his office and the perplexing riddle that was his subject in the fraud case, Tracy Lord. If all they had wanted was an arrest in the case, they could have taken her in weeks ago. But the agent in charge, Fletcher and the prosecutor, Franzcwa, had insisted on breaking the back of the network supplying the gift cards

They wanted it all.

He was familiar with the concept. The more time he spent with Temperance Brennan, the more he wanted it all: the happily ever after that she insisted was not a guarantee no matter how blissful they might be now.

But that didn't mean he still didn't want it.

oOo

Past 7 that night, he finally made his way into her apartment to be greeted by a wealth of delicious scents.

And Max Kennan.

"Hey, Booth." The old con man reached out his right hand to clasp his in an iron grip. He was seated with his back to the table watching his daughter work in the kitchen. "Tempe invited me for dinner. Thought I'd have to tackle this feast alone."

The long granite table that always reminded him of an altar had been set for three and in the back of his mind he wondered if some truths would be sacrificed that night along its length. He liked Max but often thought that if the man told him the day was sunny, he should check with two other people for verification.

Whatever Bones was stirring in a pot on the stove delivered such an inviting aroma that he could almost forgive the intrusion of her father into their evening together. "There's a turkey breast in the oven for you and my father," she stated after kissing him hello. "And fresh rolls."

It had become one of the hallmarks of their time together that she could be counted on to whip up a well-balanced vegetarian meal often tweaking recipes from other countries. Rarely could he persuade her to include animal proteins_—"C'mon, there's got to be such a thing as a free-range cow_, _right?—_for himself or Parker, so he knew she was making a special effort for her father. Tonight's fare was less a cultural marvel than a good, old-fashioned meal, he thought, meant to accommodate her father's tastes. It did not dawn on him until later, much later, that she had made his favorite dishes.

The meal passed pleasantly enough—_he really did like Max_—peppered with news of the Packard's sale and Russ' latest restoration project, Max' science squad, and progress on the Vikings in the lab.

For a man who could read people, he really should have seen it coming.

"I understand you're working a fraud case, Booth," Max began. A glance at Bones told him that she knew perfectly well where the after-dinner conversation was headed.

"And you have to understand that I can't talk about an on-going investigation."

Max simply shrugged. "She just mentioned you two weren't working together." He looked at his daughter. "And I simply asked why. I wondered if it had anything to do with. . . ." He words trailed off and he waved his hand between the two of them.

"Us having regular sexual relations," Bones supplied.

He winced, but Max seemed to ignore her remark. "I like seeing the two of you together," he said, then quickly added, "as a couple."

He wondered if this was going to be a friendly father to. . . what word could he really use without launching a debate? _Daughter's lover?_ Mostly accurate, but not a term he liked to use with her father. _Pair bondmate?_ Something Bones had suggested but it reminded him too much of bondage and pony play. _Boyfriend?_ Even he found the aspect of the _boy_ in boyfriend somewhat distasteful and Bones had pointed out that they had been friends for much of the time they had known each other and they weren't engaged in a sexual relationship, therefore, the term seemed terribly inadequate to describe their current status.

_Partner?_ That word had been so misused by them both over the years that using it seemed somehow. . . _wrong_ on so many levels.

Those thoughts roiled in his head. He knew he probably would want more one day, and those words he kept carefully locked away in a back room of his mind. Yet as the ever-practical woman-he-currently-was-with-in-some-kind-of pseudo-domestic-way-which-included-a-giant-heaping-of-sex might say, there were no guarantees. Except wanting more. He was afraid that that, like it had been before with Hannah and Rebecca, might become their tipping point.

"Booth?" Bones was sliding a piece of steaming cherry pie in front of him. Max already sat at the head of the table, his own fork poised and ready to dive into his piece. "You did want pie, didn't you?"

They ate in blessed silence, Bones sipping at her wine as she watched them eat. Booth simply let the pie work its magic. He had a great deal as it was, he thought.

"Ah, honey," Max said as his fork clattered against the plate for a final time, "this was delicious."

And suspicious. He watched the silent exchange between the Brennans and realized, too late, that he'd been had.

"Booth, I'd really like to hear more about that case you've been working on without my daughter," Max said. It was said in that unhurried way that a con man might say something. "The one that's keeping you away from your people at the lab."

Max had hit him with two quick jabs to his heart. "Without my daughter" and "your people" touched his heartstrings. They always would.

"What my father means is that he is a con man and he has some insights that he would like to share with you about the case," his domestic-but-never-quite-domesticated-partner-not-partner said. "He might be able to help, Booth."

The pleading in her voice and that look in her eyes were two other ways to pluck away at his good sense.

"So all this. . . ." He waved at the table and took in the kitchen. "Bones, are you playing me?"

"I'm trying to," she quirked her mouth in a half smile. "Did it work?"


	23. In my life

_**In my life:**_** The Beatles**

He liked Booth, he really did, but sometimes the man was too. . . too. . . straitlaced.

No, that wasn't it, thought Max Keenan. Booth was practically living with his daughter or at least spending most nights with her. Definitely not too straitlaced if he was doing that.

Too. . . stubborn, pig-headed, obstinate. . . yes, Booth was all those things, but that wasn't really what was gnawing at him. Booth wanted to work with Tempe and everyone at the Jeffersonian, but he wasn't allowing his emotions to overcome his sense of duty. That kind of stubbornness made him a good match for Temperance. Two of a kind and all. Able to step back and see what was before him. Weeellll, at least some of the time. That whole thing with the blonde reporter wasn't one of those times, really. Emotion overcame common sense there, from what he understood. But that was over with thankfully.

No. The man was just too. . .too. . . FBI.

No. He _was_ a cop, but Booth was something more. He could bend the rules; hell, that was one of the reasons Max was still walking around as a free man and one of the reasons Russ had gotten a better deal than he deserved.

No. Booth was too. . . too. . . principled.

Yes. He was a man of principles.

Principled and hard-working and honest. Good qualities because those were the same qualities Max saw in his daughter. She deserved a good man whom she could trust with her life and Booth certainly fit the bill. They were a good match. And a bad match in some ways. The hard-headedness that both seemed to share would probably send one or the other out the door until the dust settled, but Max didn't doubt that love would more than likely draw those two back together.

At least that's what he was counting on.

The other night at dinner had devolved into a stand-off. Tempe had refused to do more than demonstrate to Booth that she was capable of subtlety and subterfuge. But she refused to do more than simply demonstrate. After that, she was telling Booth everything. Yes. Tempe was honest. That was his daughter. Overly honest, sometimes abrasively so, but he rather liked that about her. It was far easier to tell where he stood with her because of that.

Age and experience hadn't taken that streak of stubborn honesty from her. She called a lie a lie and that was that. If someone complimented her and she saw that it was so, then, by golly, she would say, yes, that's true and stand there without blinking at the sheer audacity of what she'd just done.

Honest.

And Booth was principled.

And somehow the twain would never meet.

Well, that wasn't exactly true. The twain were meeting almost nightly at Tempe's from what he could tell from the Jeffersonian gossip mill.

And he was fine with that. Happy, actually. Russ was married with two great kids, a very wonderful wife who stood by him through the thin of it, and they were in the thick of it now trying to make a go of their family. And Tempe was with Booth who seemed to be sticking, too. Even after the other night's debacle.

Not quite a debacle. Tempe had agreed to show Booth she had the stuff to help him with the fraud case and he was there to see if he could come up with a better angle than the FBI had on the case and well, it had fallen apart on the edge of Tempe's honesty and Booth's principles and that was that.

"I won't lie to Booth," she'd said and she had kept her word.

"I can't step away from the fraud case," Booth had said and he was keeping his word.

And Max Keenan was. . . frustrated. Honest, decent people could be so frustrating sometimes.

And Max was a little frightened.

His ears were attuned to the Jeffersonian's gossip mill. He'd heard enough about this new FBI agent to know that, while the FBI did have their share of corrupt, vindictive SOBs, Paxton was more of a glory hound who was this side of incompetent and if Booth didn't stop playing Eliot Ness and start being Tempe's other kind of partner, he was afraid this Paxton would get her hurt or killed.

He lost her once; he didn't want to lose her again.

oOo

"It's just that I thought you might need another perspective on this case you're working." Max had blanched at his daughter's honesty that had toppled their fragile house of cards. "I have some experience, you know."

"I can help, Booth." Tempe was resuscitating the subject she had just clunked on the head. "I can be quite resourceful undercover."

"No."

Stalemate.

Oh, Booth had been a little bemused by the whole business and Tempe was, well, a bit put out by Booth's reluctance, and a bit torn as well.

It had been a small miracle to get Tempe to go as far as she did. No one could really tell her what to do, even as a child. Present the facts, lay out a logical argument and she would follow. Dr. Saroyan and Angela with that beautiful baby and her husband, Dr. Hodgins, all had presented their reasons and Tempe had considered them all when she had taken her case to Booth.

And he, Max Keenan, had considered only one argument to have any weight.

His daughter's life.

"_This Agent. . . ."_

"_Paxton."_

"_Yes, Agent Paxton, doesn't have the best interests of Tempe when they go out together to interview suspects. He might put her in harm's way. At least with you, I know you've got each other's backs."_

_Booth had leaned back against the counter, his arms crossed in front of him as Tempe began to clear the dishes. Max had pushed the right button there. His amusement at the sabotaged attempt slowly dissolved._

"_He's a trained FBI agent, Max, a former Marine. He can handle himself and. . . ."_

"_I can protect myself, Dad."_

That had been a sticking point, his daughter's independent streak. Combined with her inherent honesty, nothing had really worked to persuade Booth. With another woman, feminine wiles might be called into play, but Tempe just didn't work that way. A short demonstration for Booth was the best she could manage.

And even then, she'd let whatever progress they'd made melt away.

oOo

"Photography is basically writing with light." He wrote the word on the board then slashed it into two parts. "_Photo_ is light and _graphy_ means writing."

He turned to the children gracing his lab today. "We're going to be doing a bit of writing today." He pulled out one of the pinhole cameras they would be using today. "That's going to require an understanding of physics and chemistry." He grinned at his class. "Are you in?"

Really, he loved being back in a classroom, teaching kids about science. Put him in a room with a bunch of kids whose eyes could light up with excitement at something new, and he was transported back to lessons with his best student.

"_. . . That's the caudal vertebrae," she finished. "Two hundred and fifty bones in all." She had paused. "Well, not 250 bones in the tail. Two hundred and fifty bones in the entire skeleton."_

_The cat skeleton he'd borrowed from the high school lab lay on the floor in her bedroom, a half dozen books opened around it. The centerpiece of her investigation had been sketched out in her notebook, a series of lines drawn from the bones to words identifying each group of bones. Another notebook was filled with notes, carefully organized: habits, nocturnal and diurnal; nutritional needs; physiology. Rain continued to pound against the roof, broken by periodic claps of thunder in one of Mother Nature's most impressive summer rainstorms. She would look up occasionally, counting as he had taught her, "One potato, two potato, three potato. . . ." until another thunderclap would break the pattern and she could tell just how close the center of the storm was to them._

_At ten she had an insatiable appetite for learning, practically devouring books with an ease that seemed almost impossible for someone so young. _

_She was intense, he had thought at the time. Maybe too much so. She could become lost in a book, become transported through time and space with one of those documentaries he would show in his class, the ones that explored ancient tombs, that talked about cats as objects of worship in ancient Egypt. While she seemed interested enough in knowing everything about the cats, she seemed even more enraptured by the investigations into the tombs. Those movies he had only shown as small clips in class, the full documentary much too long for a class period because he had so much to show them all. But Tempe devoured these, too, sitting quietly, her face intent, her mind probably recording every minute detail. _

_When she learned about something, she seemed to want to know everything about that thing._

"_Do you think, Dad, that the cat will evolve more to accommodate his domestication?"_

_He might expect the question from some of his brighter students. But when it came from his ten-going-on-eleven daughter, he knew she was something special. And he would have all he could do to keep up with her._

"Mr. Max?"

Kara held out her pinhole camera. "Could you show me how to load the film again?"

He'd devised this particular lesson for a whole Saturday—an adventure in photography. He didn't do these days often, but there was simply too much science to explore.

"Why can't we load the film out here, Kara? In the light?"

The girl, a product of having too much handed to her too soon, had to think on that one.

"It will ruin it."

"Why?"

The girl was thinking, but she wasn't getting any closer.

"What was the lesson for today? What are we doing here on a Saturday?"

"Because we're writing with light today, Mr. Max. And that film is proto. . . proto. . . protosensitive!"

He smiled at the mix-up. The little girl tried, she really did, but he would have more success with her if he sang songs on YouTube. "Photosensitive," he corrected gently.

The girl nodded solemnly.

He patted her on the shoulder. "Why don't you go inside our darkroom and ask Parker to help you load your camera?"

He'd made Parker Booth his lab assistant and had shown the boy everything they'd be doing, running through possible scenarios of what could go wrong as each child tried to keep facts straight and their cardboard cameras closed to the light. The first wave of kids had already gone out, come back with mixed results and were out on their second quest to make something out of the light in the Medico-Legal Lab of the Jeffersonian.

There was so much to do today: A Photographic Safari, he'd called it, having gotten permission to take the class through an exhibit still being readied on dinosaur physiology. First the pinhole cameras to solidify the principles of photography, then some Polaroid cameras he'd been able to scrounge up, disposable cameras during lunch, followed by digital cameras and a movie that would show them just how much could be done to manipulate a photo. With a movie and popcorn—_a chance to get off his feet_—he'd send his science rangers back to their parents, their minds and stomachs sated until the next class.

A Saturday session also meant the large lab was mostly deserted. A few techs usually came in the morning to finish work; interns squirreled themselves away in the smaller labs or in bone storage.

And he might be able to coax his best student to be his lab assistant.

His own lab that had been transformed into a darkroom through the magic of hanging heavy black curtains was only a short walk from his daughter's office. There she was engaged in splitting her gaze between a skeletal diagram and her computer screen.

He watched her for several minutes, her intensity so reminiscent of when she was a little girl, drawn into putting all the pieces of a scientific puzzle together until she had created a complete picture to satisfy her curiosity.

This look was the one she had when something didn't quite fit together neatly and her mind was trying to match all sides of the piece until she would, out of necessity, discard it for another piece.

"It's not going well, honey?"

"They didn't indicate what the significance of the high levels of potassium and magnesium meant for the . . . ." He let her explain, allowing the words to fill the empty space between them. Unlike the little girl who had little idea of what they were trying to accomplish this morning, he didn't keep up with the words because he knew he simply couldn't. She'd passed him by decades ago.

"So it's not your Viking's second cousin twice removed out there?"

He'd made out enough to know that something was amiss in one of the histological scans on the Vikings she'd been sent from Norway.

"There's no way to tell. . . ," she stopped and she slowly smiled. "You're being amusing. You don't really mean. . . ."

"No." He returned her smile. "You're doing your own tests, right?" There was a slight nod. "And you'll have to wait for the test results, right?"

The reluctant smile bloomed into a full-fledged grin. "You want my help with your class."

"Parker's good," he offered, "but I need my best assistant."

She rose slowly, closing the lid of her computer, giving him that look which he knew to be a throwback to long ago when he would take her to the school on Saturdays and lay out the week's lessons with her assistance. As he finished up those preparations, he would sometimes find her curled like a question mark over an open textbook drinking in everything from a book meant for children almost twice her age.

As they made the short walk to his lab, he tested the waters. "There wasn't any trouble between you and Booth because of the other night?"

"No," she said, her eyes meeting his. "Why would there be trouble?"

Her mother, Christine, had hoped that Tempe would have learned more about how to interact with people, and maybe she would have had Russ taken her in rather than leave her to foster care. Max could imagine his shy, wildly intelligent daughter closing herself off from people even more than she had, waiting out the foster care system until she could escape into college and find some comfort in academia and books.

"Booth doesn't like to be manipulated, honey. He didn't seem very happy."

"We told him what we did and why we did it," she said as they turned the corner. She slipped into the white lab coat he handed her. Several of the kids were milling around them in the lighted area examining their photos. "Everything's fine, Dad."

"It's just that I worry, honey. I'd feel much better if Booth were your partner."

He would have said more except two of his photographers came barreling into the lab and practically ran into them before veering at the last minute. They bee-lined their way into the darkroom with a few mumbled apologies.

"Mr. Max," Kara was saying as she came through the tunnel he'd crafted to act as a light baffle for their makeshift darkroom, "I got something!"

The little girl held up the tray that still smelled heavily of fixer. The edges of the paper were tinged dark gray. In the middle of her paper was a blurred image that bore no resemblance to anything he'd seen in the lab.

"It's the Vanessa kershawifrom Dr. Hodgins' lab," said Tempe.

"The what?" asked Kara. She peered even closer at the image.

"The Australian painted lady," Tempe supplied. "See? The distinctive markings on its wings?"

The faint patches of gray looked little like a butterfly. Or anything actually.

The little girl was confused. "I took a picture of the butterfly in the first tank in the lab place," she said. "I thought it'd be pretty."

"They are. . . pretty," said Tempe. "Even in black and white." She examined the image that was slowly turning gray. The girl had not left it in the fixer long enough. "For how many seconds did you leave your aperture open?"

The girl looked dumbfounded.

"How many potatoes did you leave your finger off the hole?" Max asked.

To this the girl brightened considerably. She held up five fingers.

"Then you must. . . ," his daughter paused and calculated something in her head, "try to do it for 27. . . potatoes."

"Twenty-seven?"

"That's accounting for the quality of light," said Brennan, "as well as the kind of light in the Ookey Room, in this case, mostly artificial, as well as the directionality of the light sou. . . ."

"Honey," Max said, his hand on his daughter's arm to stop her explanation, "we'll start with twenty-seven potatoes."

oOo

"_Just let someone else answer the questions, Tempe," Russ was saying, a banana poised to stoke the furnace of a 14-year-old eating machine. _

_Christine had nodded her approval. What mother wouldn't after seeing the distress on her 10-year-old's face? "Tempe, it's all right to hold back a little."_

_But Max had known only one way to live life. "No, honey. No. If you have the answer, go ahead and raise your hand." He'd leveled his eyes with hers and took in the tears just beginning to pool there. "You shouldn't hide what you know. Don't ever hide. Let them catch up with you."_

They were lined up now, waiting for her assessment. Even Parker, who had been stationed within the darkroom as his assistant, had come out blinking madly like a mole coming out of its hole. He tugged on his lab coat for his attention. "The pictures are really pretty good."

They were. The group of kids had stumbled—_as he knew they would_—over the first results of their experiments with the pinhole cameras, but after Tempe had offered little Kara some much-needed help, and the others caught on, the next set of photos were remarkably good.

"How many potatoes, Dr. B?"

Little Kara was back for more. She held the tray like an offering.

"It's fuzzy," one of the boys said. "Except for that one."

She'd been back to the Ookey room, this time catching a whole group of butterflies seemingly in flight except for one that remained stock still long enough for her to capture its form. The fuzziness provided a perfect frame for the lone butterfly.

"It's very pretty," Tempe said. "I don't think you have to change a thing."

The little girl smiled and skipped back into the darkroom with her tray. The line around his daughter closed in as the next child presented her a photo to examine.

Photography was a perfect marriage of art and science, he thought. Very practical science, the kind his daughter had been practicing for the years she'd been partnered with the FBI. Max watched as his daughter made perfectly rational, thoroughly reasoned suggestions for exposure times that minutes later translated parts of the lab into compelling shades of gray and he thought, not for the first time, that Christine would have loved to have seen what their little girl had grown up to become.

oOo

Max Keenan had lived many lives, had taken on any number of different names. He'd use Keenan to distance himself from his children when they needed it and dropped the name Brennan to anyone in earshot at the Jeffersonian if it could help him get something extra for his science program.

He'd traveled throughout both Americas under half a dozen different names. He'd once been an angrier man, a man driven to prove himself, but these days he wanted a simpler life, a life less buffeted by such inner storms.

Max wanted a life where he could always be known by one moniker: _Dad_.

"Dad? Do you know what you want?"

Tempe's hand brushed his across the table. They'd managed to herd the children from the lab into the waiting arms of their parents and meet Booth at Pizza Rustica for dinner. He'd been staring at his menu far too long and three sets of eyes were on him.

He set the menu aside. "Why don't you order for me, honey?"

"You'll end up with rabbit food on your pizza." Parker giggled. "Trust me."

Booth shot his son a look.

"Then in that case," Max picked up the menu and made an exaggerated scan of it, "I'll have. . . the rabbit food pizza." He set down the menu then patted his chest. "I've got to take care of this old ticker. Those kids just about tired me out today."

"Are you sure you're not too tired, Dad?"

He shook his head. "No. It's a good tired. I know I've earned a good long shower and a nice long rest tonight." He gestured to Parker who was sitting across from him. "Hey kiddo. How about letting me see those photos you made today?"

Parker beamed and opened up the Jeffersonian envelope. An assortment of photos in various sizes spilled out as well as a packet of negatives. Most of the photos were of the lab or creatures populating Dr. Hodgins' room. But one photo stood out.

Parker had taken it before the other children had arrived and Max had shown him how to develop the film in a small tank. The roll of processed negatives had almost been forgotten in the excitement over the pinhole camera images and the Polaroid pictures. But he'd shown the children how photos used to be made before computers and digital cameras took over. The image had surprised him as it slowly appeared in the developing tray and it certainly was his favorite of the day.

It was a photo of his daughter. The depth of field had been short and the object in her hands, whatever it was, had practically disappeared to reveal the portrait of a woman deep in thought intent on unlocking a mystery to which only she had a key.

"In my life," Max said as he looked at the photo, angling it so that Booth could see it from his side of the table, "I have never seen anyone more beautiful. Or precious."

He caught Booth's eyes and held them.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see his daughter pick up her iced tea and drink, her movements choppy as they often were when she became uncomfortable. Parker continued to shuffle through the stack of photos.

Then Booth nodded. He reached out his hand across the table and took Tempe's hand in his. "Yes, beautiful," he said.

"And precious."

"Yes," said Booth, his eyes never wavering, "and precious. Very, very precious."


	24. People get ready

**People get ready: The Impressions**

She clapped her hands that signaled the end of her instructions. "All right," she announced, "people get ready." Dr. Camille Saroyan looked around at the smattering of technicians and interns. "This is going to be a bad one."

Stepping from the platform, her heels tapping against the floor with a steady rhythm that made her feel more in control than she really was, Cam made the turn toward Dr. Brennan's office to deliver the news to her forensic anthropologist.

"Dr. Saroyan?"

Cam stopped and turned toward Hodgins. He'd already changed into his jumpsuit and had one of the field cases dangling from his right hand.

"I called Angela that she might be needed for the facial reconstruction," he explained. "She can be here in about a half hour." He paused, grinned, then gestured helplessly. "Okay, with the baby it's usually closer to an hour, but don't tell her I said that."

And then he added, almost as an afterthought, "They really think this is one of those Chinese Hong Choi murders?"

She'd seen too much violence and death as a New York City coroner, and here, at the Jeffersonian, where grotesque seemed a prerequisite for anything they handled, she had seen even new depths to human depravity. As much as the FBI dispatcher had told her on the phone, she knew the reality at the scene would be much, much worse.

Nodding slowly, she confirmed his suspicions. "Tortured then murdered." She sighed heavily. Sometimes the job was just too, too sordid, she thought. "The police believe there's more than one body, but they couldn't tell."

Thankfully Hodgins understood better than most what he would be walking into.

"Should I grab Dr. B?"

They both glanced back to her office. She'd disappeared in there more than 15 minutes ago, Booth hot on her heels, and neither one of them looking particularly happy.

Rank had its privilege, she thought, but its responsibilities as well.

"No, no." She waved him off, sighing. "You go to the van and I'll get Dr. Brennan."

Getting Dr. Brennan meant navigating whatever minefield lay in wait for her in the anthropologist's office. Something had shifted in the non-partner's new romantic partnership, taking them from the almost blissful state of new love into a more fraught-with-danger state of frustration. With almost three full months of being separated by a fraud case that seemed destined to drag on and working schedules that afforded scant hours to be together, the few times she had seen them together at the Jeffersonian, she had had to duck the shrapnel of their arguments that seemed to grow more frequent the fewer times they had to be together.

Bracing herself, she strode purposefully into the office only to instantly look for cover.

"You don't go around telling a fifth grader that there is no God, Bones."

"I did not tell him that there is no God, Booth. I simply told him that I did not believe in God."

"It's the same thing."

They were bent toward each other, their faces merely inches apart. It reminded Cam of the earlier times she had interrupted the partners when arguments were rife with sexual tension.

Now it was simply tension that filled the room.

"It is not the same thing, Booth. He asked me if I believed in God and I told him that I didn't believe in a mythical. . . ."

"Mythical?"

"Mythical being that. . . ."

"God is not mythical, Bones. You should know that."

"The Bible as well as the Book of Mormon and other manuals supposedly developed and written by the disciples of your God are cataloged in most libraries under mythology as are most. . . ."

"That's not true."

"True."

"Not."

"Uh, huh."

"The Holy Bible is not mythology, Bones."

Cam put two fingers to her mouth, pursed her lips and blew.

The shrill whistle startled both of them from their verbal duel. In an instant she had two sets of glaring eyes trained on her.

She ignored their looks. "Dr. Brennan, Dr. Hodgins is waiting for you in the van."

It made no sense to state the obvious. A gentle push in the right direction was all that was needed.

Cam heard the exasperated sigh from Booth as Brennan bent to pick her messenger bag from the floor.

"Just don't talk to my kid, Bones."

"Ever?"

The tension ratcheted up.

"Cam?" The tone in Booth's voice told her one thing, but the expression on his face said another. This could be a long siege. "Could you give us a minute?"

Before she could put her foot down or retreat, Brennan made her action unnecessary.

"I'll go meet Hodgins." She shouldered her bag. "We have a case."

For the briefest of moments, Brennan had appeared to be on the verge of something, thought Cam, the gears in her head had turned and her focus had been on a scenario in which she no longer had any interaction with Booth's son. After all the years she'd worked beside Brennan, even Cam could see where this would go. Hurt had replaced anger and then, just as quickly, was replaced by a cool front that masked whatever emotions were careening within her.

"Bones," Booth had seen the shift in emotions and had realized, too late, what he had implied, "I didn't mean forever. Just. . . just. . . don't talk to him about religion. _Please_."

"Until he has hair under his armpits."

From another woman, the statement might be dripping with sarcasm, anger even. From Brennan, the words were coated in something more akin to resignation. Sadness, even.

If her words offered up the emotional toll the fight had on her, her expression revealed nothing. "I should go." She glanced at Booth and hesitated.

"I'll go," Cam said and turned to retreat. She doubted either of them heard her. But it did not matter.

She'd seen enough train wrecks in her life.

oOo

High above the lab, Cam tried to quell the anxiety fostered by the call from the crime scene. With her remarkably objective report, Dr. Brennan could make the horrific scene seem almost mundane, and for that, Cam was grateful.

Cam knew it was a distancing technique, a way to work the crime scene without it working you. And Brennan was the master.

She checked her watch. Hodgins had given their ETA and she made her own calculations and decided she still had time before she had to get back downstairs. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine a world without sin, or at least, a world in which sinning didn't lead to murder.

But it didn't last long. "Cam?"

Seeley Booth loomed above her.

"It's just going to be a long night." She tried a smile, but even that seemed like too much work. "I thought I'd take advantage of the quiet before the storm."

He nodded and sat down. Booth seemed as worn as she felt the world had become.

"Paxton caught his dream case," she said. She caught Booth's face, the worry radiating in small lines. "I'm sorry, Seeley. This can't be easy for you."

"I don't care about the case," he said. He leaned in. "See if you can keep her in the lab, Camille. I don't want her going out with Paxton, even for takeout."

His eyes bored into hers.

"You know she won't do that, Seeley. The moment I suggest something like that. . . ."

They both knew Brennan too well.

"I've got to go to New York tonight. A lead that might pan out." He shook his head and groaned. "We're never together long enough for anything these days and then when we are together. . . ."

She'd been witness to too many of their "together" moments of late to know how to finish that thought.

"All couples go through. . . ." She couldn't finish the thought because it just didn't seem fair.

"Yeah. All couples."

She covered his hand with her own. "It will get better, Seeley. Have a little faith."

"Faith?" He snorted and chuckled. "Faith? Rebecca calls and tells me that Parker's telling her he's not Catholic, he's atheist all of a sudden and immediately I nail Bones for that one. Turns out one of his classmates tells him he won't have to go to church on Sunday if he's an atheist and he can eat anything he wants during Lent and Parker wants to turn atheist for some candy during Lent. The one night we're in the same state at the same time in weeks and I. . . ."

"Jump to conclusions?" She smirked. "Knowing Brennan it seems rational."

That brought a rueful smile from Booth.

"Bones just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"There's something to be said for gathering all the information first."

He groaned and leaned back, his head meeting the back of the cushion with a thud. "I want this to work. She wants it to work." He groaned.

"But it's not working right now." She drew in a breath and plunged in deeper. "You two have to be in the same state at the same time more than just once every two weeks, Seeley. And it would help if the time you're together is spent together, not waving at each other while you're walking away."

He turned his head and looked at her. "I'm going to steal her away from you for about an hour."

"You can't." She gave him a sympathetic look. "We've got a briefing with your people 15 minutes after they arrive. And they'll want progress reports on the hour."

"That will drive her crazy."

"Which, in turn, will drive me crazy." Cam looked upward. The grid work above them offered no answers, only a silent witness to their work. "Which means I've got my work cut out for me."

"Sometimes I hate this job," he said finally, after some time had passed.

"I know," she answered him. "Me, too."

oOo

Newspaper reporters just didn't have all the facts, thought Cam as she tried to coax another cup of coffee from the coffee maker in the lounge. But they never did, did they? The police always left out small details to trip up the criminals or clearly ID the perpetrators.

Readers of newspapers up and down the Eastern seaboard had ample details of the grisly murders to cause more than a few bad dreams if they really used their imaginations. An enterprising television station newscast had focused one of their 3-minute features on the effects of news reports of murders on people's sleep patterns, eliciting another wave of news stories to accompany the already burgeoning catalog of death and destruction found in the daily headlines.

Cam knew additional details. The stuff of hellish nightmares. Dante's Inferno-type nightmares.

These details she tried not to dwell on as she tried to balance two cups of coffee and make her way back downstairs to the lab. All she had seen were photographs, diagrams, computer recreations.

Brennan had been to each torture site. She had worked each case. She'd seen it all.

The first murders had been in upstate New York and she'd been called in to sort through the bodies and identify what looked to be unidentifiable.

The second had been outside of Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love.

The third in Virginia.

Cam made the turn at the landing toward the bone room, a Jeffersonian coffee cup in each hand.

Remains spread down the side of an elevator shaft. Bodies ground up in wood chippers. Human remains reduced to soup in a solution of Clog-Go.

And somehow, none of those seemed as horrific as the torture/murders of the Chinese Hong Choi.

Again, she tried not to dwell on these things.

Things outside of her control were easily dismissed. Things she could control, well, she tried to corral those as best she could.

But Dr. Temperance Brennan was different.

Once when she was just a teenager, she'd gone with friends to a Saturday of horseback riding. While she'd enjoyed herself, she had never quite gotten used to the sheer strength of the horse she'd ridden. The horse, while gentle, had exuded a quiet power that was both exhilarating for the potential danger, but daunting as well.

In some ways, that Saturday long ago reminded her of the time now with Brennan.

She stood in the doorway and watched her forensic anthropologist for a moment longer. Normally she would be standing next to the lighted table as if that were the only way to be respectful of the remains. But tonight, Brennan had opted to sit as if three days and nights of toiling beside the dead had taken its toll on her.

Cam entered and set the coffee on the edge of the table. "Anything new?"

Without looking up, Brennan nodded slightly. "I've identified the possible weapons used to inflict wounds to the lower extremities."

Brennan's speech and movements had perceptively slowed from the usually manner she had.

"How long has it been since you've been home?"

Brennan straightened and eyed the coffee cup on the table before picking it up. "Thank you," she murmured.

Cam watched Brennan sip the coffee, her eyes glancing up at the monitor upon which was projected the third and fourth ribs of the victim. "I believe Dr. Edison is correct that the. . . ."

"How long, Dr. Brennan?"

The look that Cam could only identify as that of a cornered animal came and went with a blink. "Over 68 hours."

Cam made her decision. "You are going home today at noon if I have to have security drag you out of here."

"I should be done with my full report at 1, Dr. Saroyan. One-thirty at the latest."

"Then 1:30 it is." Brennan said nothing, simply returned her attention to the bones.

Cam stood there for a moment longer, her coffee in hand, before she turned and walked away.

oOo

It didn't seem fair, Cam thought, as she sat at her computer, reviewing the day's email traffic. Seven years of _almosts_ and _maybe nows_ had turned into _finally _only to be blasted into _hopefully_ _tomorrow_ by circumstances beyond anyone's control.

With Booth in New York, Brennan had avoided going home to an empty apartment by pouring herself into her work. Not that there was any guarantee that Booth would be at the apartment when she got there.

The last exchange she'd witnessed between the former partners was icy, to say the least. And the phone calls between them—the few she actually heard snippets of—had been short, definitely not sweet and pointedly chilly on Brennan's end.

It just didn't seem fair.

For her part, Cam had tried to watch over Brennan, but her own circumstances had made it almost impossible to account for every meal or every nap the woman took. She had a lab to run, over a 100 people to supervise, and despite the fact that Brennan was the catalyst for so much of the who and what and why of the lab, Cam had never felt entirely comfortable ordering her colleague to do anything. Oh, there were the occasional times in which they disagreed on procedures or processes. But those were professional disagreements.

Watching over Brennan had seemed more. . . personal.

She was 34 years old, Brennan would point out, and had been taking care of herself for some time.

Cam well understood the streak of independence—it was what had driven her mother to distraction and her father to regularly chastise her choices. Cam swiveled in her chair and tried to crane her neck toward the platform. All she could see were the technicians at their stations.

No Brennan.

She checked her watch.

The deadline was fast approaching and she wondered if, when push came to shove, if she could really call security to escort the inimitable Dr. Brennan from the lab.

Now that might make headlines. A new legend of the lab could be born. A new Queen of the Lab could be crowned. Cam smiled at the thought.

She'd caught the morning news headlines with their assortment of real news versus the entertainment "news" that wriggled its way into each program. The Chinese Hong Choi murders had given way to the newest hairstyles of the rich and privileged.

For some reason, it felt so much better to be working under the radar, especially on this case.

Everything gleaned from the newspapers about the Hong Chois was bad enough. Brennan's own observations, wrapped in a cool objectivity as they often were, offered up even more disturbing images of the membership and how they peddled their brand of death.

The damage to the bodies was troubling enough.

She turned back to her computer and heard the ding that signaled a new message.

A brief glance told her all she needed: Brennan's report had come in under the wire, just shy of the deadline.

"Good," she thought to herself, opening the attachment. Then she began to read.

oOo

Being the boss had its privileges, Cam thought for the hundredth time that day, as she basked in the heat they had just generated. "I think we missed our dinner reservations," she murmured as Paul pulled her closer.

"Dinner at Chiberta's is over-rated," he murmured right back. "And they have a dress code," he added. He peaked under the sheets and made a clucking noise. "We are woefully underdressed for them."

Yes, Cam thought, being the boss had its privileges. She'd sent everyone home early once Brennan's report had been filed with the FBI and the bodies had been sent to storage. And she'd taken advantage of a rare afternoon off to pamper herself.

"You know," she said, her hand drawing a pattern on his chest, "food is considered necessary for rebuilding one's energy levels."

He smiled and laughed and kissed her soundly. "You want me to feed you, woman, so that you can have your wicked way with me once again." He started to feel for his boxers that had been discarded some time ago when she heard an all-too familiar ring tone coming through the open door of his bedroom.

She sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Don't answer it," he said as he began to kiss his way down her arm. "It's Chiberta's wondering why we haven't gone there to eat their incredibly fabulous food at incredibly inflated prices."

"No," she countered, "it's probably someone who knew I was enjoying myself and decided to murder someone anyway just to piss me off."

She sat up and began to hunt for something to throw over herself to make the trip to the living room where she'd left her purse. Paul produced his robe and she wrapped it around her, kissed him again, then made the trek toward her phone.

Being the boss had its privileges, but brought responsibilities as well, she reminded herself again. She dug the phone from her purse and checked the caller ID. It wS a familiar name and she relaxed a bit. "Booth," she said into the phone, "I sent Brennan home at one. Paxton even drove her home."

"She's not here, Cam." Booth's voice sounded strained. "They took her."

"What?" She tried to wrap her mind around what he was saying. "Who? Who took her?"

"The Chinese, Cam. The Hong Chois have her."


	25. God only knows

_**God Only Knows**_**, The Beach Boys**

FBI agents find his body stuffed into a storage closet in the basement of Brennan's building. In life he was FBI Special Agent Ryan Paxton, formerly of the U.S. Marine Corps, the bane of their working lives. In his death they discover that he was uncle to three boys who thought highly of him and the ex-husband of a woman who did not.

Agent Paxton solved cases, not the riddle of how to work with the scientists of the Jeffersonian. In spite of their tenuous working relationship, Cam and the others would much rather not be investigating his death. Too much has already been lost in his death.

Their silent fear is they will lose more.

The FBI agent in charge refuses them access to the crime scene, but delivers Paxton's body to the lab in the hope that they can gather evidence to point to his killer. But this is the finest forensic lab in the East, probably in the country. Dr. Camille Saroyan and Dr. Jack Hodgins begin to process the body with the hope that it can tell them where the other victim of the home invasion has been taken. Agent Paxton, who told them so little in each case that they sometimes resorted to blackmail and threats when arguments did not work, is now an open book. An open corpse, Dr. Brennan would tell them, correcting their metaphor.

She is on all their minds.

Both Cam and Hodgins return to a lab they'd left behind only hours before and try once more to get Agent Paxton to give up his secrets. They have no arguments, no threats, no blackmail schemes to persuade him.

Only cold, hard science.

oOo

Booth stands like a coiled spring in the back of the small theater, his poker chip in constant motion in is right hand. The briefing covers the basics: what happened, who it happened to, where, when. He's already been informed he cannot work the case of the abduction.

He's been temporarily assigned to the Jeffersonian.

He listens as an agent recites information about Dr. Temperance Brennan, forensic consultant to the FBI, that has been supplied over the years in his own reports and by Sweets. He listens as someone supplies a short list of why she is valuable to the FBI and to this case against the Hong Chois.

She has been their finest weapon against the Chinese clan.

The agent in charge begins to close the book which signals an end to the meeting, but Booth knows there is something else they need to know. Because the report is all too clinical and all too objective, he supplies something that is not in the briefing book that has been hastily assembled.

"Bones is a fighter," he tells them as he steps forward along the wall. "She won't give up. She found a way to leave clues at the apartment."

It is too much to hope she has laid a trail of bread crumbs for them to follow.

"Dr. Brennan has already told us that one victim of the Hong Choi's torture survived as few as 6 hours. The longest survived 72 to 75 hours." The agent in the front shows no emotion. "That is our window." His voice drops to a murmur. "Let's hope she can fight that long." The speaker closes the book.

Booth turns to leave, but the speaker is not done. "Dr. Brennan gave us the evidence to bring down the Hong Choi clan, people." The lead agent looks directly at Booth. "She's probably our best hope of getting her back."

oOo

Dr. Saroyan can tell that Agent Paxton ate no lunch which suggests he didn't stop off with Dr. Brennan, but took her directly home. Dr. Hodgins makes the calculations and they now know approximately when she was taken. A starting point. The defensive wounds on the man's arms, the broken bones in his hands and the pre-mortem bruising on his face, chest, back and stomach suggest that he fought hard, probably against several attackers. Brennan, who is an expert at telling them which hand could have inflicted what damage, would have liked how they measured bruises to help determine hand or weapon sizes.

Dr. Hodgins can tell from particulates recovered from the agent's clothes that he was showered with broken pottery shards, consistent with the 12th century Peruvian cooking vessel in Brennan's apartment. Only one blood type is evident on the fragments. Cam runs the DNA knowing it is not Brennan's blood on the pottery.

Fibers in the gunshot wound track suggest that he was shot using pillows or cushions as a silencer. He would have died instantly.

No bullet is recovered from the body.

They quickly run out of evidence. Paxton, who had been so stingy in life with sharing evidence, is just as stingy in death. And since the FBI is not sharing information with them, they build a scenario based on speculation and what scant evidence they have.

They speculate even though they know Brennan would disapprove.

oOo

Angela waits in her office, breast feeding her baby, tears held at bay as she tries to think of something she can do to help. There is almost nothing for her to do since the FBI has released little information to them. Her skills as an artist with the pen and the brush as well as the computer are not needed as yet since there is nothing for her to reconstruct, nothing for her to research.

But she waits here because to wait at home is unbearable.

Angela knows she does best when she thinks of the victim as a living person rather than a body. With no body, that is easy.

Because it is Brennan, her best friend, that is essential.

When she puts the baby down for its nap, a question takes shape and she grabs the baby monitor and rushes toward the Ookey room.

"Why would Paxton be in Brennan's apartment?"

"He walked her to her door? Then they were surprised? Or the bad guys were inside?" Her husband is stumped why the question is so important to her.

Angela repeats the question for Cam when she walks into Hodgin's lab. "Paxton wouldn't have gone there for a social call." She looks hopefully at her husband and at her friend and hopes that this is something significant. "Mostly he drops her off and races off as quickly as possible. But he doesn't walk her to her door."

"He wanted to make sure she went inside?" Cam looks mystified, but it is Hodgins who makes the leap.

"He knew she was in danger. He was going to get her to pack a few things and leave with him or. . . ."

"Stay with her until a protective detail arrived." Cam finishes Hodgins' thought, but none of them take any comfort in their deduction.

"He was going to take her someplace." Angela knows the information is important, but it will not recover her best friend. "A safe house of some sort."

While they have no tangible proof, they have one piece of the puzzle.

And with little else, there is nothing left for them to do but wait.

oOo

Booth drives toward the Jeffersonian trying to remember the last conversation he had with Bones.

He'd been short with her, taking everything she said to him as a personal affront.

She had broached the subject as she usually did, with a blunt directness that was her hallmark. "Why do you call me Booth if all you are going to do is find fault with everything I say?"

"Well, maybe if you didn't try to, I don't know, demonstrate your superior intelligence every time we talk lately."

That had earned him silence.

And finally another comeback.

"None of the words I used in that sentence was longer than 3 syllables, nor were any words beyond your level of comprehension, Booth. In fact, nothing I have said could be construed as inflammatory. Therefore," she had paused, "I believe that either you are still quite frustrated over the progress in the fraud case or there is something else outside of our relationship which is causing you to act this way."

"I think Sweets would call that displacement."

He'd sputtered and he'd retreated, but he had not been able to deny that what she said was true.

He had answered her in silence.

"Maybe there is a third possibility," she had said, finally breaking the silence. "Maybe you want to end our relationship."

Had she whispered the words, they still would have cut him.

"No." He'd stumbled for words to reassure her. "How can you say that?"

He wonders as he pulls into the Jeffersonian parking structure, if he could have been more emphatic. More reassuring.

"Then we are at an impasse," she had said, a certain hesitancy still in her voice, "unless there is something I have done to anger you, I'm not sure what else to say."

"I can't help unless you talk to me, Booth. I wish you would tell me why you are so angry."

oOo

Booth strides into the Jeffersonian and without asking, Cam tells him everything that Paxton's body has told them. Angela stands by her husband, his proximity essential because she is afraid without something to hold onto, she might collapse.

"We know there was a struggle," Booth says in a clipped tone. He has seen the apartment—it was his call that set all this into motion. He will not share with them the impact of seeing the wide-ranging destruction in the apartment. No. His report concerns the government's reaction: a team at the FBI is looking for someplace where the Hong Choi clan would take Brennan. Another team is in the field canvassing witnesses.

"The FBI in conjunction with other local agencies were preparing to cast a giant net and serve arrest warrants on all the members of the Hong Choi clan," says Booth. "Bones was going to be taken into protective custody until the arrests were made."

They know what happened next.

Hodgins is the first to crack the silence. "And they didn't tell us? We worked the case as well. Did that mean our lives were in danger, too? When was the FBI going to tell us about this?"

His rant includes a few choice words about Paxton in particular and about the FBI in general.

But Booth is not Paxton. He is not regular FBI. They are reminded that he is the exception and not the rule as within minutes, Angela has access to the FBI files on the Chinese Hong Choi and she begins to program her computer to look for patterns in the sites of the torture/murders that might lead them to Brennan.

Hodgins is given access to the FBI crime lab's analysis of particulates found at the scene. Within seconds he is at his old station off the platform, pulling up photos of the crime scene and the particulate reports.

Cam takes another station and brings up Brennan's reports on the murder victims. Each is marked only with a letter of the alphabet to hide their identity. It was Paxton's system, one more way for him to control the information, to keep them in the dark.

By Paxton's system, Brennan would be case file J.

She sees something odd in the reports. The original seven reports are accompanied by an eighth she's never seen before. Thinking that it is a mistake, an extra document that sometimes gets duplicated or added in by mistake, she opens it and begins to see just why the Chinese saw Dr. Temperance Brennan as a threat.

If she uses Paxton's system now, Brennan would be case file T.

oOo

"We need a timeline, Cam," Booth says, fully aware that they will always be a step behind the FBI on this case when it comes to information.

"We have that," she says, pulling up a screen on her computer. "Between 1:30 and 2:00, Brennan was abducted." She takes a breath before she finishes. "Your call came at 6:18."

"We lost over four hours there."

Hodgins' words lay heavy on all of them.

Booth feels the coiled spring inside him beginning to tighten more, if that is possible. "It's almost nine now."

No one reminds them it's been almost eight hours.

"We have particulate analysis that suggests one of the Chinese had been at some kind of factory, warehouse with heavy concentrations of carbon dioxide, magne. . . ," Hodgins begins, but Booth cuts him off.

"Combustible engines, small gasoline generators."

Angela shakes her head, barely able to contain her pain. "That's over 130 in a 200 mile radius."

"Over a hundred?" Cam looks toward Hodgins. "Isn't there any way of narrowing this down further?"

He swipes a hand across his forehead. "I'd do better with the actual particulates." He looks to Booth. "They might have missed something, man."

"Is there something they haven't processed yet?" Cam asks.

Hodgins shakes his head. "I got nothing."

They all take in the crime scene photos Angela has blown up. She's cross-checked them against the evidence recovered at the scene.

"There."

At the foot of Brennan's table, someone has placed a marker, No. 22, to indicate a smear of blood and liquid with bits of something embedded in it on the floor. "What the hell is that?" Booth asks.

Cam has the evidence report open. "Number 22, blood, tea and metal shavings."

"What kind of metal shavings?"

Hodgins practically flies to his computer and begins to comb through the files. "Nothing," he announces, a bit of hope edging into his voice. "They missed it."

Booth is already barking orders into his phone.

"I'll narrow down our choices," Angela says as she sprints toward her office.

Cam touches Booth's arm as he closes his phone and lets it slip into his pocket. "Booth, it's still a long shot."

He turns to her, blinking past the doubt that burns his eyes. "Ten minutes." He turns back toward Hodgins' station. The scientist is searching databases as he waits for the FBI lab's analysis. "I told her I loved her." His eyes have the look of a man who has seen too, too much. "You know, the last time I talked to her. I told her."

Then he walks away.

oOo

"That leaves 34." Angela leans back heavily on her stool. "We have to narrow it down further, but I. . . we don't have anything else."

"Tempe would say there's something else that hasn't been considered yet."

They all turn to the familiar voice to see Max Keenan striding toward them.

His face is grim, his expression hard. This Max is not the affable, charming old con man they have come to know. This Max is the one who could drive away from his children to protect them, the Max who would murder.

His look is steely and his words to the point. "We need a location of where they have taken her. They won't negotiate."

He listens as they outline what they know about the Hong Choi operations and he interrupts and tells them simply, "Tell me about the torture sites. Where did they take them?" 

Booth lists them. New York. Pennsylvania. Virginia. "The FBI looked at bank records, Max. Each site was foreclosed on by a different bank. There's no connection there."

"The FBI lost her," Max says. He holds Booth's eyes with his own. His meaning is clear to both men.

"He's right," Cam says, breaking the deadlock. "There's something we're not seeing."

Max is the first to turn back toward Angel's computer. "Look at the banks again. They hold the papers on the foreclosed factories," he says. "Those places are still owned by someone."

Before he can finish the thought, Booth is on the phone with a forensic accountant and he outlines what needs to be done and the urgency with which it needs to be done.

"Is there a database of foreclosed properties?" Cam asks. "One's that have been empty for some time?"

Within minutes, the numbers are halved then halved again.

They have seven choices.

"Where the hell is she?" Hodgins asks.

"God only knows," says Angela.

oOo

By eleven they have been joined by Sweets.

"The tortures are committed to elicit infor. . . ," he offers, but Booth cuts him off quickly.

"We know that." Booth's voice almost shatters with pain. "We need something to help us narrow down the number further."

Sweets regroups his thoughts. "The pattern," he says finally. "There's a pattern to the tortures."

They crowd closer to Angela's computer screens as she pulls up each victim and the time Brennan has calculated it took the victim to die.

"Each victim is mined for information," Sweets says. "Six hours wasn't enough time for the first. They need to make it last in order to elicit as much information as possible."

Sweets' suggestion creates a new timeline.

And a new hope.

And a new horror.

"A remote place," Max says. His eyes never leave the screen. "Off the beaten path."

"They need to run a generator to produce their electricity," Cam adds.

"Generators are noisy and they'll need to insulate the noise somehow." Hodgins turns toward Max. "Especially if they want to use the site for hours." He wants to add something to ease the man's suffering, but the old con is as impassive as his daughter.

Angela's computer runs through the seven foreclosed businesses.

The list narrows down to four, then three.

Three.

Angela sends information—floor plans and site diagrams—about each onto her divided screens. Cam and Sweets pour over one while Angela and Hodgins take on the middle screen. Max reads through the third.

Booth calls in the addresses.

"It's this one," Max says, almost in a murmur. "It would be perfect."

But Max's musings are lost by a loud BAM and the splintering of Angela's stool against the brick wall.

Booth stands with the one leg that survived in his hand.

"Booth?"

"We're too late," he says as he slams the leg to the floor. "They've begun to sweep up the Chinese Hong Choi clan."

In their shock and in their silence, they all know that this is a death sentence for Brennan.

"We're too late."


	26. A Day in the Life

_**A Day in the Life, **_**The Beatles**

****_Who will hear her silent scream?_

_She has flashes of a cell with a dirt floor and no windows. . . . and fear stalking her. . . voices seesaw into her consciousness. . . . Spanish intersects with Chinese and death surrounds her. . . ._

_The concrete floor beneath her is unforgiving, but to lie as they left her is to buy more time. . . . to move might draw attention. . . make them think she is conscious. . . make them think she is ready. . . ._

_The trunk lid descends. . . blocking light. . . trapping her. . . with stale air. . . her own stale fear. . . ._

_She lies playing opossum. . . . fuzzy and unfocused. . . lost in dreams. . . . flashes of a car buried underground. . .no air to breathe. . . . and blood. . . . rivers of blood. . . blood on her hands. . . ._

_She bolts upright, unmindful of her ribs that scream their own kind of pain, her voice filling her head, filling the room._

"_Dr. Brennan?" She takes too long to realize they are talking to her. Everything around her seems slow and unfathomable. She is underwater, underground. _

"_Booth?"_

_She hears his name in her head, but it won't leave that place. "Booth," she screams again, but she can make out no sound. Her voice is silent. His name shatters against the hard concrete in a silent wave and fails to save her. _

_She tries again and again. _

_Her thoughts dart in and out taking her deeper into what must be a dream. A nightmare. _

_No, if hell exists, this is it. _

"_Booth," she screams, but he cannot hear her. _

_For who can hear a silent scream?_

oOo

The cold water actually slaps her into consciousness. She tries to twist and turn from the cold and biting water, but her ribs protest any movement and her head feels the betrayal as well.

Then she realizes what it is meant to do.

Yes, she tells herself, they are ready for her.

Mere flashes of images are more than enough to remind her. She'd gone back to her apartment and Paxton, Agent Paxton. . . .

She hears a cruel laughter as she sputters and tries to evade the wall of water that seems intent on drowning her. Her hands are useless. . . somehow they are tied together. . . . She twists, turning her back on the spray which is unrelenting. . . .

The water has a dual purpose, she knows. It is meant to revive her, wash away the last remnants of the drugs that subdued her.

And the water will better conduct the searing force of the electric shock that will surely char her from the inside out.

She fights the impromptu shower and the ropes that burn her wrists and the fear that threatens to rob her of any rational thought.

For now she needs to think.

When the spray ends, she finds herself curled in on herself like a coiled spring. She hears a foreign phrase in rapid-fire Chinese and wills herself to concentrate.

Shivering now with cold, it is so, so difficult to concentrate.

"Are you ready yet?" she translates.

The reply is something akin to _the_ _stupid inbred stack of donkey poo is not ready_, but her thoughts are still muddled.

The two men leave her dripping on the floor, hurling insults at the machinery of her destruction which is just outside the door.

"_Ni__ǎ__oshì! The thing is full of shiong mao niao."_

She trains an ear on their conversation which devolves into grunts and curses as she tries to assess her situation.

Her head throbs with what must certainly be a combination of the latent effects of the drugs—temazepam or gamma-hydrobutyrate, perhaps—and the hard knock she took at her apartment. Her ribs catch when she breathes, but when she presses her fists into her side, she decides nothing is broken. Various aches make themselves known as she quakes.

Fear holds her in its grip.

Knowing how they will torture her gives her little advantage only new images of skeletons splayed across a lighted table. Her mind continues to lose focus, caught between trying to translate their conversation and trying to tamp down the panic that comes in intermittent shivers that almost paralyze her.

Only when the two of them leave the room, the large door ajar, does she fight back the panic and look around.

Studying the room, she catalogs what she can see in the gloom. The room is 18' by 20' with high ceilings. Windows line one wall, but they are too high to offer much help. Cables and chains dangle enticingly from the ceiling—again too high for her to reach.

There is nothing in the room except fear.

She cannot help but react to each sound that somehow filters in from outside. She knows exactly when the generator engine finally engages and roars to life, then sputters and dies. Their curses carom against the concrete outside this room until they dissolve into the shadows here.

Instantly, she knows exactly what will happen.

In the past 6 weeks, she has examined too many files, too many bodies, not to know. When they are ready for her, they will hang her from the hook by her hands or a harness. When they finally engage the generator, a rheostat will control the voltage.

But amps are where the power is.

She'd explained this to Angela days ago. Touching a Van Der Graaf generator with 2 million volts does little more than make one's hair stand up. It is the current that does the damage.

A Taser is at most .04 amps, a heart defibrillator 2, a common vacuum 12.

At one end of the spectrum, one will be incapacitated for seconds, maybe minutes. At the other end, one could die.

They will start relatively low. Perhaps 10,000-12,000 volts at .02 amps. Then they will ramp up the voltage slowly as she resists.

And they will raise the amperage to watch her die.

Each shock will be unpleasant, an affront to muscles and nerves, sending them into spasms as the body's own electrical impulses are disrupted.

Eventually, when she had told them everything they want or when her body has nothing more to give, the last shock will stop her heart and give her peace.

In the profile Sweets had provided to Paxton, he had called the Hong Choi tortures "experiments in the depravity of human creativity."

She'd thought the phrase too poetic for such a report.

Brennan only knows now that she desperately needs to change the parameters of the next experiment.

oOo

She is their first woman.

The thought hits her as she hears the generator sputter outside the chamber and she can hear the snippets of conversation in Chinese as they alternate between cursing the machine and wondering aloud about how long it will take her to die.

The generator finally starts and she tenses her muscles and prepares herself.

She expects them to walk in and drag her to the hook; she will meet them with something unexpected. Oh, she will try.

She does not fear death, but she certainly won't welcome it.

Then a scream erupts from somewhere beyond the room and she feels as if a blow has struck her chest.

It can only be Paxton.

Another scream drowns out the steady hum of the generator and she finds herself on her feet awkwardly backing away from the sound.

Her body reacts to the screams that echo past the door and invade this space. Twisting and turning as if to evade the screams as if they were blows, she backs herself into the deeper shadows of the room until her back hits the all-too-solid cinder block and she slides down into a heap on the floor.

Each scream breaks the boundaries of the doors and walls and seems to pummel her.

And her own fears make her bleed.

oOo

The silence is welcome.

The generator hums in the distance, but the screams have faded. But not the fear.

She can barely stop her body's tremors.

Again and again she tries to calm herself, but ghosts of the screams remain to haunt her.

Finally, she wills herself to calm.

It is a struggle, but it is battle she has won before. Rational vs. emotional; logic vs, chaos. Only later, much, much later, will she realize that so many of her rational arguments were informed by her emotional needs.

She lays out her rational arguments:

She cannot give in because Booth will come.

Of that she is sure. It is an absolute in a world where she does not believe in absolutes.

She can give him time. It may be the only thing she can do, but she will do it for him because she cannot bear him living with the guilt if she were to die. She loves him too much to leave him with that.

And he will feel guilty even though her death would not be his fault. Of that she is absolutely sure. And she does not want that for him. No.

She cannot give in because she wants to spend time with Angela and the baby. And Hodgins.

She cannot give in because she wants something of what Angela has with Hodgins and the baby.

She cannot give in because she wants to spend time with her brother and Amy and the girls and her father.

She cannot give in because she has an outline for a new novel and a pushy publisher and journal articles to write. . . .

She cannot give in because Cam has a proposal for the FBI that will rid them of Paxton and free them of his incessant. . . .

Then she realizes something. Something insidious and cruel. Something meant to break her.

When the screams begin anew, she lets them wash over her, although the emotional pain evident in each makes her shudder.

When the second wave ends, one of her captors slides the door open and walks the 12 feet to her position at the wall.

"Dr. Brennan?" He smiles, his expression almost feral. "We can save you a great deal of pain. Agent Paxton has told us much, but even he does not know everything."

"Qingwa hóuzi rén'ài àizǐ de yīgè kūn quǎn," she hurls back at him. "Qù jùyǒu yīgè shǐ diūzhe jǐnbiāosài gēn tóngde nǐde fūren."

She translates in case her Mandarin is faulty. "You monkey-humping son of a bitch. Go have an excrement-throwing contest with your wife."

oOo

There is no sense of time in this place, only the faulty rhythms of the generator.

Paxton is dead, she reminds herself. And Booth is coming.

She remembers how Paxton tried to shield her, how he'd fought hard. But she'd heard only one gunshot, only one thud when they threw her into the van. Only one.

Psychological terrorists, Sweets had called torturers. He'd been proud of the term as if he had invented it.

They'd tried to heightened her panic and fear. They'd tried to take away some part of her.

Paxton is dead, she thinks. And Booth will come.

She repeats the last words as a mantra, a chant, a tenet of her faith.

Booth will come.

Her mind flips through images of what might have been left behind in her apartment. Fibers from clothing. Dirt tracked in from outside. Dust and particulates and insect activity and. . . .

Booth will come.

Hodgins will read the particulates and create a roadmap to this place.

And Booth will come.

Her rational mind wants to rail against the emotion of hope, but she indulges it. She has to.

Then the generator hum breaks through her thoughts and she feels the now all-too-familiar terror that must be tamped down. Or harnessed.

For the experiment begins again and she must rewrite it.

The shorter man re-enters and she counts the number of steps to the door. She listens for the other man's footsteps, but hears nothing, only the generator's hum taunting her.

She rolls onto her stomach, trapping her hands beneath her.

In this experiment, she cannot give away too much.

The man orders her to turn over, but she sees no logic in obeying. She's rewarded with a kick to the ribs.

Immediately she is caught in the quake of searing pain that radiates from the epicenter of her ribs. Instinctively, she curls around her injured ribs to protect them.

He laughs and tells her he will enjoy watching her die. And he leans in a little too much.

She drives her foot into his testicles.

The effort creates another seismic wave of pain. Gasping for air, she scrambles to her feet awkwardly, her tied hands keeping her unbalanced, and Brennan turns to see her handiwork. As she thought he would, her abductor has collapsed to his knees and is about to fold onto the concrete.

She hesitates, deciding if she can do more damage when she hears a shout and turns to see the second man hurtling toward her.

When she tries to deflect the impact of his body against hers, he simply holds onto her soggy clothes and drags them both to the concrete. Then it is a flurry of kicks and jabs and wild attempts to fight back the inevitable. A cocktail of adrenaline and fear and anger prolongs her struggle, but she is eventually pinned to the ground by one man while the other limps off to find more restraints.

"Crazy hell cat bitch," he says as he grabs her hair. "You will tell us everything before you die."

He grinds her face into the concrete and leans closer, until she can smell his breath which reeks of blood and death. "They all beg me to kill them. They beg for hours."

"My record's three days." His spittle burns her face where it lands. "For you, I'll give you four days. Four days to wish you were dead."

oOo

Pain strangles her as they draw the harness around her.

They've wrestled her to the spot near the door where the cable snake ends just shy of a puddle of water. Each man holds her roughly, their fists iron and unforgiving as they strap her in.

The harness is like a heavy vest with electrodes embedded along the inside. She takes little pleasure in knowing that she was right about the placement of the electrodes and the markings on the bones of the victims.

The theory she had posited had been this: a harness of some water-resistant material had electrodes positioned evenly along the ribs. Cuffs of the same configuration were placed at each of the extremities. Once plugged in, the harness and cuffs could be electrified and energy could be directed along any of the wires.

In its own perverse way, it was an elegant design.

She had counted six wires at the torso and at least the same number in each of the four cuffs.

She had spent too much time with the files and with the bodies not to know how each victim was killed.

Once they have her strapped in, one man lowers the hook while the other man works the pulley. As the taller of the two men begins to draw her up into air, the other directs the hose toward her. Under the shower of water, she struggles, then concedes a kind of defeat.

"Cats don't like water much, eh?" one of them taunts her in Chinese.

The moment the water is turned off, she waits for the tall one to near her to attach wires to her harness and she lashes out, driving her heel into his face. She can feel the cartilage break and is rewarded with a stream of red from his nose.

And another cold shower.

oOo

The false starts with the generator are meant to taunt her, cause her to lose control just as the playacting involving Paxton was meant to loosen her tongue.

The generator hums outside the room

And time, right now, is her greatest enemy and her best weapon.

That and the water.

She hurls more insults toward the shorter man and is rewarded with another shower. With no drain in the floor, the water puddles then pools, forcing them to splash through it to reach her.

"An experiment, Dr. Brennan?" The shorter man glares at her as he turns off the water. "You want to see what we will be doing to you for four hours?"

The taller man holds up a rat caged in a steel basket. "You like to see cause and effect?" He bends down awkwardly, the tissues stuffed into his nose to stem the bleeding giving him a lumpy appearance. He dips the basket into water at his feet and splashes it around to wet the rodent which scrambles frantically along the wires. "Science teachers like experiments, now, don't they?"

He slams the basket onto the seat of a wooden chair they've dragged in from somewhere and nods to the shorter man as he picks up two insulated wires with almost an inch of bare copper showing at the ends. With a faint click, she can only imagine that electricity pulses through the wires.

And she knows too well what will happen.

When it is over, she can smell scorched fur and flesh and she tries to gulp in huge breaths of air only to choke on the stench.

The tall man waves the wires in front of him, touching the wires together where they spark and smoke. "Ready?"

They've learned from before and they've tied her feet together at the ankles, secure that harnessed and hobbled she cannot fight back. He approaches her, rattling off Chinese insults, the wires inches apart, one in each hand. He calls out a command and the electricity crackles between the wires in an undulating bridge of fierce fire that arches dramatically, then falls just as dramatically into a jagged line of light.

And then she attacks.

Drawing up her knees, she drives both feet into his neck.

She has no idea if she's broken his hyoid, but he gasps, goes ashen, then collapses with a splash to the floor.

All at once she hears shouts and a small explosion, and smells the stench of cooked flesh.

oOo

This time when the cold water washes over her, she tries to hang onto unconsciousness just a tad longer. When she does open her eyes, the drug seems to have burned off the edges of linear thought leaving her only fragments of ideas.

"How many bodies were recovered, Dr. Brennan?"

"You need to be see-pif-ic, spa-fic-sic, spa-sif-tic. . . ," she replies.

"I need a number for the number of bodies recovered in the Hong Choi case."

"A," she begins then fades. "A is for aardwolf, genus Proteles. . . ."

"How many bodies?"

"A through S, aaazzz not aassss."

"A number."

"One, two. . . ," she tries to order her mind to make the calculation, but it wants to jump around, to play games. "Ten, thirteen, fourteen." She tries to think. "Seventeen."

Her head feels heavy and she leans against the ropes that hold her in place. Her eyelids flutter like the wings of a wounded bird, truly unable to sustain flight.

"I need names, Dr. Brennan."

"No names, no names. Just alphabet. B is for ___babirusas, genus Babyrousa. . . ."_

___She hears cursing in Chinese, so she echoes back the phrase. _

___And she is rewarded with a slap. _

___The edges become less obscure. Her left eye refuses to open. Her feet and legs cannot move. Her arms are frozen in place. _

_"__Go home," she cries. "I need to go home." She begins to struggle, but the restraints are tight and her body will not obey. The drug ties down her mind._

_"__You'll go home, Temperance," the voice tries to soothe her, but she hears a jagged edge to it, "when you tell me about the 17 bodies that were recovered. The bodies that are part of the Hong Choi investigation. Agent Paxton needs to know."_

_"__Paxton knows," she says feeling herself sliding into something she cannot control. "Paxton knows all about the bodies."_

_"__He wants you to tell me."_

_"__He's dead you know."_

_"__Who's dead?"_

_"__C. _Coelacanth. Thought to be extinct 65 million years ago." She tries to stop the spinning thoughts in her head. "They found one. Not extinct. So not dead."

"The FBI wants you to give us a run through of all the people that you have identified as possibly being victims of the Hong Choi crime syndicate."

"It's in the report."

"They want a verbal report."

"They want, they want. . . ."

"Booth wants it. Booth wants you to tell him all about the 17 cases. Something that he can use to identify the bodies."

"Booth?" A wave of hope clears away some of her muddied thoughts and she realizes something in the name. "Booth? Is he here?"

"He'll be here as soon as you tell me all the details."

"Details?" She leans against the chair. "Usually he doesn't like the details."

"He needs them now."

She nods. Details.

And so she begins.

oOo

No light begins to glow through the cracks in the high windows. She has no idea how long they have been at this game of. . . what game is it? Elephant and peanut? Dog and cat? She swings her head, heavy with drugs and fatigue and pain and looks straight at the inquisitor. He is the same short, stocky man he was at the beginning of this ordeal, but his clothes are spattered and he looks. . . .

She decides he looks disheveled. Unkempt even.

But not as bad as she feels.

"The twelvth victim was male. Thirty to thirty-five years of age. One hundred and eight centimeters. Weight estimated to be between one hundred seventy to one hundred ninety pounds."

"Race?"

"Mixed." The word comes out raspy. "Asian. Caucasian."

"Good, Dr. Brennan." He leans back and stretches. "Distinguishing characteristics?"

She closes her eyes. "Dental records indicated that he was. . . bruxism. . . a teeth grinder." She opens her eyes and tries to read the man's expression. She's already committed everything about him to memory—she can give Angela enough details for a sketch. Her throat protests more words.

"Water?"

"I need the details."

"And I need water." I need warmth and sleep and Booth, she thinks. "Water, please."

He grunts and rises slowly. She can read his injuries in his gait, the years of violence in his body.

Lolling her head backward, she tries to find some position that does not ache, that allows her some small rest.

And then she sees it. Something moves one of the windows in the corner. The angle changes on the soot-coated rectangle.

And she knows: Booth has come.

She knows what is happening outside. Thermo-imaging to determine where she is. Visual confirmation. A quiet approah.

And danger inside the steel door.

The generator was disabled as was the second man. Yes. _There was a second man?_ The drugs pummel recent memory and she decides—there _is_ a second man. Yes. Booth will need to know that.

And the gun.

Before she can consider a course of action, an orderly transition between one state and another, the cold water assaults her and she tries to fight it, tries to see beyond the spray so that Booth will be safe. . . .

Then she hears it: "_FBI_. _Put down the. . . ."_

"He's got a gun, Booth. He's got a gun," she screams as the water suddenly releases her. "There's two men. Two."

Her captor uses the spray from the hose as a shield as he grabs the gun and then steps behind her.

Then in a blink, something happens. Time, which has been both her friend and her enemy remains still, silent. Then the eerie calm shatters all around her: the hose becomes a tamed snake that hisses no more and somebody is sawing at the ropes and she is falling into someone's arms.

oOo

Cocooned in layers of blankets, she leans against Booth who is sitting with her in the back seat of his SUV.

It feels good to be dry and warm again, she thinks. And Booth is solid and warm and real.

The mars lights of the ambulance and the various police vehicles continue to light the darkness, but she shuts them out, closes her eyes and tries to lean further into Booth. Part of her wants to sleep, but another part knows that there will be nightmares.

She can control so much in her life, just not her dreams.

He wraps his arm around her and she is finally beginning to feel safe again.

"Thank you," she says, her word muffled by the blankets. "For coming to get me."

"What?" She can almost feel his smile.

"Thank you for coming to get me."

She knows her words tumble out at odd angles right now and she carefully reviews each word.

"Thank you, Bones." His arms encircle her and she wonders how nightmares could ever trespass on her nights with him beside her.

"For what?" In her muddled thinking, she cannot fathom why he would be thanking her.

"Thank you for giving me another chance at, I don't know, Bones," he says, pausing to make his words clear for her, "another day with you, another day in the life of Temperance Brennan."

"It's everything, babe," he murmurs as he kisses her forehead. "Everything."

**Author's note:** Fans of _Firefly_ might notice that Brennan's Chinese is inspired by Josh Whedon's show. Whedon's genius is this story's gain; I take no credit for his creative work.

I should also give credit to the fine people who create Wikipedia articles. I've consulted many in order to create this series. Thank you, oh anonymous smarty pants.

I tried to abide by a guideline from _The Avengers_, an old British television show imported into the United States in the '60s. The producers refused to show the inimitable Mrs. Peel being tortured or a woman killed and I followed that idea here. I know it's somewhat old-fashioned, but I rather like the old Alfred Hitchcock standard of hinting at the horror rather than showing all the gruesome details. Mrs. Peel could fight back, even best her male opponents or kill them, but she rarely came away with a scratch. Brennan, here, does come away worse for wear, but whole and victorious and sharing hero honors with Booth.

That is how it ought to be in the _Bones_ universe.

**And a final note:** Thank you for those people who have reviewed my efforts here. You deserve some credit for the encouragement a note can bring. A story should stand on its own, but feedback is welcome and much appreciated.

**Next up: **_**Layla**_** by Eric Clapton.**


	27. Layla

_**Layla**_**, Derek and the Dominoes (Eric Clapton)**

"Do you really think it's a good idea that I go back to work?"

Dr. Lance Sweets peered over his steepled fingers at the brunette across from him. _That was one of the essential questions, wasn't it? Are people really ready to embark upon a new chapter in their lives?_

_Or in this case, return to a chapter as yet unfinished? _

"What do you think, Agent Peabody?"

He scrutinized the woman's body language as she reasoned out why she might want to return to work: the openness of her arms, the relaxed attitude of her entire body. A woman comfortable in her own skin.

Six weeks of bi-weekly sessions had really turned her life around, he thought. The frightened, almost catatonic woman he had seen over a month ago was surely blossoming into her real self.

". . . So I think I can handle the stress of my job, Dr. Sweets. I think I've realized that people make mistakes. It's only human nature."

"Absolutely Agent Peabody." He gave her his best reassuring look. "Anyone can cut the wrong wire on an incendiary device."

The woman's left eye twitched almost imperceptibly. "It is a problem in my particular line of work, Dr. Sweets."

"Yes, I can see that Agent Peabody." He tried a new tack. "You have to remember the breathing exercises as a means of coping with the stress levels in your body. Those should help you reduce the anxiety and help you make better decisions."

The woman's breathing seemed to change.

"I'm not sure I really am ready for this."

"You are the only one who really has the answers, Agent Peabody. Only you truly know if you are ready to return as a lab technician in the bomb unit."

Her right foot began to bob. Then accelerate.

"It's a process, you know," he said gently. "It is a process."

oOo

In some ways, Dr. Lance Sweets felt a strong responsibility to watch over his people. Certainly, the FBI paid him to ensure the psychological well-being of its agents as well as provide profiles of the perpetrators of major crimes. But somehow he felt a closer connection to some of the people in his sphere, people who he considered to be close friends.

Like Agent Booth. And Dr. Brennan.

While they most certainly were a couple and most certainly were his friends, he did not feel the certainty to include them together in the same sentence.

Of course, he felt he could describe them as partners in work and in love and pair them in the same sentence without any hesitancy. But outside of those parameters, they were separate but equal people who just so happened fit much better as separate entities in their own fragmented sentences.

Ever since the book fiasco and various other one-on-one sessions, he had a feeling he was letting one or the other or both of them down.

Not deliberately, mind you. Somehow, someway, he felt like he was not quite speaking the right language with them.

Lately, he felt a stronger connection to Agent Booth. A comradeship, if you will. Getting drunk with another man—a friend—certainly had special meaning, created a special bond.

At least that's what Dr. Hodgins had told him.

And that bond, gave him permission to approach touchy topics with Agent Booth with a greater sense of confidence than it did with Dr. Brennan.

Dr. Brennan was a whole other kettle of fish.

She infuriated him, insulted him, frustrated him and infuriated him. Oh yes, he already said that.

She was opinionated, blunt, abrasive and she infuriated him.

Oh yes, he already said that.

But he did count her as a close and dear friend.

Just not one in which he could discuss his chosen profession of psychology because she simple dismissed his discipline as beneath her.

That's why she could infuriate him.

But despite everything, psychology and Dr. Temperance Brennan were clearly on his minds these days.

Which had a rather negative. . . , oh hell, it frustrated him to be spending as much time as he was thinking about Dr. Brennan and her mental health and feeling somewhat impotent to help her.

Part of his concern was professional, certainly. After enduring—and surviving—almost 12 hours of captivity in the hands of the Chinese crime syndicate best known for using torture and murder as part of their business model, anyone with any kind of sense would be re-examining the choices they'd made in their life or be sitting off in a corner babbling like a complete loon. Well maybe not that exactly, but something of that ilk.

Instead, after a few days off from her duties at the Jeffersonian—_and only because a doctor insisted that she allow her badly bruised ribs heal a bit_—Dr. Brennan had returned to work only to be thrown into a rather gruesome double murder.

The other reason for his concern was, of course, personal. He liked the woman. Granted she could wheedle her way under his skin and make him question the very foundation upon which his profession was based, but wasn't that the point? Every time she pointed out that psychology was little more than a guessing game or that understanding the ways of the human mind was inexact he had had to up his game and rebut her arguments with some of his own. She kept him sharp, she did. Forced him to constantly re-examine his processes in order to show her just how vital his profession was to the team they'd built over the years.

She made him bring his A game every time.

And what infuriated him, what really stuck in his craw, was that despite what had most definitely been a traumatic, almost apocalyptic experience at the hands of Chinese sadists who had drugged her, beaten her and _came this close_ to putting her through a regimen of progressively brutal electric shocks, she seemed to be fine.

_Fine_.

The woman's ability to compartmentalize was truly unnatural. She came away from the experience with little more than bruised ribs and a black eye—outward manifestations of the abduction. But he was more concerned about her inner life and she had simply seemed untouched by the experience.

She was like Teflon.

He knew she was tough on the outside, cool and untouchable. But on the inside, he knew, _he just knew, _that her insides seethed with unresolved tensions that could only harm her if not dealt with. Absolutely no one—_no one_—could undergo the emotional assault she had undergone and been untouched.

oOo

He couldn't really think of it as a stake out. Not really. Just an unplanned meeting in which he could casually ask after Dr. Brennan's emotional state.

Frontal assaults never quite worked with Dr. Brennan, and he rather doubted that subterfuge would win him any real purchase with Booth either, but he rather liked the idea of making the effort if only to show that he was open for business as it were.

So when he made his way to the small kitchen down from Booth's office, it didn't take much time before Agent Booth came sauntering in.

"Hey Sweets," Booth greeted him. "Kennen and Collins said they might have a suspect based on your profile on the Cabot case." He gave him a nod. The FBI had replaced the late Agent Paxton with the tag team of Colin Kennen and Ken Collins until such time as the fraud division could spring Booth free. And Booth, mindful of the breakdown in communication that had rankled the squints at the Jeffersonian, was trying to play a more active role in the investigation.

"Just doing my job, Agent Booth." He stirred his coffee wondering if the agent could sniff out that he hadn't any reason to be stirring his coffee except to look busy. "Speaking of jobs, I understand that Dr. Brennan's returned to work."

Smooth, thought Sweets. Like butter.

Booth nodded deeply.

"Yeah."

"And she's all right with working with two new agents?" Sweets improvised. "That is, in your stead. I mean, until your return."

"Yeah."

_That was it?_

"How are you taking all this?"

"Fine."

That _was_ it. But it hadn't seemed like he'd done anything more than just. . . . "Well, if you ever want to talk Agent Booth, my door's always open."

"Yeah, thanks."

And Booth turned and started back toward his office.

But Sweets felt that his plan had somehow fallen apart. He started to follow.

"Given everything that has happened, I would think that Dr. Brennan might need some. . . ."

Booth stopped short and Sweets almost slammed his way into the still agent. But he averted disaster and was able to stop a safe distance from Booth.

"Sweets," Booth's eyes seemed to reveal something he just couldn't quite read. _Partnerly concern?_ "You're going to Angela's party Saturday, aren't you?"

He nodded.

"The baby's a real looker." Booth grinned. "And the place, well, let me tell you that the place is pretty sweet."

"That was the murder site, ah," Sweets tried to place the townhouse, "yeah, the counterfeiting ring. Victim killed in the shower, if I remember correctly."

"Yeah," Booth said. "Really it's a great place and Hodgins has replaced the shower, so no worries there."

"Yeah, sure," said Sweets. _What did you say to people who knowingly bought a murder site? Hope that doesn't happen again anytime soon? Pass the dip, please? _"Great place."

"See you tonight, Sweets," Booth said, tapping his arm as a way of good-bye.

"Yeah, tonight," Sweets repeated. He felt oddly. . . disappointed.

Well, it _was_ a start.

oOo

So if the pyramid wouldn't come to him, he would go to the pyramid. Oh, yes, he knew that the expression concerned mountains and prophets and all, but pyramids just seemed more appropriate to Dr. Brennan. Like a pyramid which seemed largely unchanged over the years, she held a treasure trove of hidden memories and untapped feelings.

He really wasn't taking this lightly. No. He'd spent some time at the Jeffersonian the night when Max Keenan had called to tell them that Booth had neutralized one of the bad guys (Brennan had somehow taken out the other) and his daughter was safe if not a bit tattered by the experience. The incessant thrum of tension at the Jeffersonian had given way to waves of relief and a strong desire to remain as a unit—if just for a little while longer.

With Cam, Angela and Hodgins, he had trooped over to the diner for an early breakfast. Cam had declared it a work-free holiday _("I dare anyone to leave a murder victim lying around today"_) and they'd parted with hugs and smiles and misty eyes. He'd made periodic visits to the lab all week, engaging Angela in a short conversation _("I knew she would kick their ass when she got the chance"_) and Hodgins in a contentious one _("The __FBI__ sucks swamp water if they think we can be pawns in their little political shell games"_) while Cam's had been more philosophical (_"This is more than just a team.")_

Each visit allowed them to give voice to the emotional turmoil they'd experienced and he felt certain that each was at a healthy place.

But he wasn't quite sure of Brennan. Booth had gone through an obligatory counseling session following shooting (but only wounding) his target while Brennan had received a brief contact with a crisis counselor who had simply indicated in the file, "Met with subject. No follow-up requested."

She deserved a follow-up—it's the least a friend could do for a friend, he thought.

Like those pyramids, the Jeffersonian didn't change much, either, he thought, as he entered through the main entrance to the lab. The lab seemed to be humming with activity as several skeletons were on the main platform and groups of people in white coats were gathered around each.

In the middle of it all was Dr. Brennan.

She was in professor mode. It was fascinating to see her wend her way through the tables, explaining and questioning, challenging and correcting. Always with a sure hand, an even tone.

Even when one of the students picked up one of the leg bones and practically dropped it to the table.

For that split second, time stood still.

Dropping the bone was certainly a breach of bone etiquette. While Dr. Brennan didn't lash out with her voice, her expression spoke volumes and the student was remarkably chastised without her saying a word.

He'd been on the receiving end of one of those looks before and knew how the young man felt.

"Dr. Sweets?"

He turned to find Dr. Camille Saroyan at his elbow.

"It's good to know that you're still coming around to keep an eye on us," she said, her eyes twinkling.

"Well, I. . . ," he sputtered. He'd been found out. He decided to start over.

"I just think that this whole situation with the Chinese was very stressful for everyone and for Dr. Brennan in particular." He took a breath. "Then to compound it, you're grieving the loss of the agent you were working with and then are thrust into a new working dynamic with two new agents. It's just truly a difficult situation all around and I want people to know I'm available to talk."

"And we appreciate it, Dr. Sweets," she said. Then she smiled. "You're really here to see Dr. Brennan."

"It's obvious, isn't it?" He felt like one of the students on the platform, trying to perform just so in front of the rather intimidating power of Dr. Brennan and falling short. "It's just that you know how she feels about psychology, but given all that's happened and the fact that she and Agent Booth. . . ," he stopped, his laundry list of reasons already hung on the line for all to see. "I just feel that all things considered," he caught Dr. Brennan holding up a skull and pointing out something in the holes where the eyes should be, "it might be good to make sure she's not experiencing any ill effects. I'd like to be proactive rather than reactive to the situation."

Dr. Saroyan's eyes glimmered. "It's been business as usual."

This time it was his turn to sigh. "Solving murders, teaching. . . ."

A small bone, one even he could identify as part of the hand, came skipping all the way from the platform to where they were standing and came to rest just a few feet away.

The world stopped. All eyes went to the platform.

Brennan's look, cool and unbreachable, did not change as she pointed with one gloved hand toward the errant phalange. The same young man, who had dropped the leg bone before, came scrambling toward them, retrieving the finger then pivoting quickly to make the return trip.

Even Cam had donned a more stern demeanor, then turned toward him. "Don't worry, they're acrylic."

Sweets turned back toward the platform where the young man was making his return.

"Dr. Saroyan, you mean. . . ?"

"Yes," she said as she rolled her eyes, "they're training bones."

oOo

He made his rounds making sure he'd ask each of them how they viewed Dr. Brennan's return to work. Satisfied that he was not alone in his concern even though none of them could fault anything she'd done since her return, nor could find a chink in her professional attitude, nonetheless he decided to take his case to the woman herself.

He didn't really want to jump out and surprise her in her own office, so he made it a point to be visible when she came in, first studying the titles of the various books on her shelves then examining the assortment of skulls, skeletons and artifacts that graced the room. He was down to perusing a vase that he thought had to be Greek in design when Dr. Brennan entered her office.

"Sweets? Was there something more you needed on the Cabot case?"

She was making the transition from the lab to her office, shedding her lab coat and hanging it on the coat rack. Then she cocked her head, expectant.

"I just wanted to check in with you. See how you were doing after a couple days back at work."

Forthright, he decided, was best.

She gave him that look which told him she could not understand why he would be making a query on her welfare.

"I just wanted to see how you were faring."

"I'm fine, Sweets," she said. "And how are you?"

She sat in her chair and seemed to be challenging him.

"I just thought that given the circumstances, you might be experiencing some distress."

"Why? I've examined hundreds of murder victims."

It was one of the dozens of times he thought her literalness was a means to mask her feelings. "I'm concerned about you, Dr. Brennan. You went through a terrifying ordeal, one that was meant to break you. And I just wanted to give you an outlet for some of the feelings that you must be experiencing."

She just looked at him. Impassive.

"Most people who go through an experience like that sometimes have moments in which they relive the experience, or attempt to numb themselves so they don't have to feel anything at all about it, or might be excessively hypervigilant or irritable."

Again with the look.

"It's just that I care about you." He wondered how to get past the barriers. "I know that when I was. . . the whole Heather Taffett shooting, I had difficulty sleeping. I'd wake up in a cold sweat, I kept seeing the blood and the brain and it took several days before I was free of the dreams."

He saw something shift in her look.

"Well, not free, exactly. But it took time is what I'm saying."

"Time?"

He felt he was onto something and held onto that one word. "Yeah, time. I would have the same nightmare for almost a week and then, it gradually went away."

The impassive look returned.

"What helped me was to talk."

Still impassive.

"Talk?" She shifted in her chair. "You talked and the dreams went away?"

"I talked and the difficulties I was having focusing during the day went away." Sweets was going for it. "I heard how other people had reacted, got some perspective and realized that I was alive and well and part of a team of people that relied on me. It helped me to know that I was not alone. That other people had had similar reactions to the stress of being there, witnessing that shooting."

She played her fingers across a sheaf of papers on her desk. "When did the dreams go away?"

"Ohh, weelll," he said, slipping into the chair across from her, "they still pop up occasionally, a piece of my unconscious reminding me that I was a part of that event, but I know that they don't have to dominate my life.

"How did they make you feel?"

Now they were getting somewhere. "I felt out of control; like the memories were controlling me."

"Did that affect your work?"

Sweets sat back in the chair, warming to his story. "Oh definitely. I began to question my work: was I really helping people? Was I what I was doing really benefitting the team? Or the people here? I tell you," he said, grasping the arms of the chair, "I began to question whether I should really be a psychologist."

"And now?"

"Oh now I realize that it was perfectly acceptable to be frightened. I had undergone a traumatic episode; you don't really know how you are going to react when you witness something like that. But I didn't have to let Heather Taffett or her last words influence my life. Hell, I was alive and she was dead, and I have to admit, a manipulative sociopath who knew how to press my buttons of insecurity and self-worth."

There. That _really_ did make him feel better.

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Sweets."

Momentarily, he became confused as to what had just happened. Quickly he replayed the conversation—_decidedly one-sided_—and realized what had just happened.

"Ah, but, Dr. Brennan," he tried again, "I really came to see how you were feeling."

"Fine."

"No ill-effects? No flashbacks? No outbursts of anger? Nothing?" He was desperate.

"No," she said in that calm, Mona Lisa way of hers, "I'm fine." Her eyes darted to a pile of folders on her desk. "I do have a great deal of work to do, Sweets. Unless there's something else?"

And that was that.

"No, ahh, no Dr. Brennan." He stood. "I just wanted to stop by and check in."

She said nothing, just gave him another look before returning to her work.

And all the way back through the lab and to his car he kept wondering why he felt good and not so good at the same time.

oOo

On the drive to the Hodgins' townhome Saturday, Sweets decided on a brand new tactic.

None.

Oh, he would observe and take note of anything that might signal a problem but he refused to continue to obsess on trying to help Dr. Brennan when clearly her coping strategies were working for her. Somehow, she had become a woman of steel with a Teflon coating and who was he to argue with what worked?

Besides, she had out-maneuvered him.

That was the problem of dealing with a genius. In their own way they could take the learning curve and twist it into a pretzel or turn forward progress into a U-turn. And while he didn't think Dr. Brennan was doing it in a manipulative way—he'd rarely seen her be anything but forthright and honest—he was just too brain sore (and a little heart sick because Daisy hadn't been able to come) to consider more than just a quiet evening of good conversation (he _was_ in the company of brilliance after all) over good food with a group of good-hearted people.

Standing at the door, he listened as the chimes sounded somewhere deep within. "Hey, Sweets," Hodgins opened the door, a smile on his face and his child in his arms, "welcome to our place."

Booth had been right—the baby was adorable and the place was simply awesome.

One room swelled into the next and each one had something of one of the Hodgins in it. Or, an actual Hodgins.

"Hey Sweets," Angela caught up with him in her kitchen, kissed his cheek and pressed a beer into his hand. She took the littlest squint from Hodgins and kissed him as well. "Hey, have you been showing Sweets around?"

"With a little help," Hodgins added. "We're going to head downstairs."

"Wow." The place was huge, Sweets thought. "There's a downstairs?"

"Yeah, it's where we keep Jack during the weekends, don't we kiddo?" Angela smiled at her son. "With all the other, slimey, crawly things."

Sweets took a bowl of pretzels Hodgins handed him and then followed him. "So, someone was murdered in this house," he started. "Don't you find that a little, I don't know, creepy?"

"She was murdered in the shower, Sweets."

"That must make showers kind of, I don't know, creepy."

"Why?" asked Hodgins. "We have a whole new shower."

oOo

One of his professors had likened the suppression of strong emotions to stuffing a garbage bag so full of trash that at some time it simply developed leaks or burst, spewing forth the festering, rotting mess.

Well, probably not the kind of image to take with him to a party, but he thought it still quite valid. Reactions to stress were not to be taken lightly; one agent he knew had donned a completely different persona rather than deal with having taken a life. Another had simply closed off the world and spent days on end in his basement convinced he could keep life at bay.

So, Sweets concluded, Dr. Brennan just seemed to be pretty leak proof.

Besides, looking for leaks was not nearly as much fun as the company. Caroline Julian came as did Cam sans Paul ("every season is baby-making season") and, of course, Booth and Brennan. Throughout the night it had been a joy to actually see each person interact with the baby. The parents, of course, simply adored their kid. Caroline proved especially adept at looking like she was in command of the situation when the baby began to fuss and equally adept at handing off the child to its parents when the fussing turned toward diaper changing. Cam worshipped the child from afar ("this is a brand new dress") and Booth appeared most comfortable rocking the little one.

And then there was Brennan. Sweets had walked into the baby's room to say goodnight to his hosts when he came upon her there, sitting in the rocker, cradling the child and singing softly.

He'd stood there for a moment and marveled, then turned and left feeling as if he had intruded.

So he left that night sure of nothing more than that Dr. Brennan was in as good shape emotionally as she usually was and gave little more thought to the dilemma of offering a safety net to someone who already seemed to have a deep reserve of them.

And so it was for two weeks. He'd managed to only make one unscheduled visit to the Jeffersonian to only find out that it was as it usually was. He'd eaten lunch with Agent Booth a couple of times during that time, but the man gave no indication that anything was amiss either personally or professionally, so his worries deflated of their own accord and put themselves back neatly in a small corner of his mind until the next case where he might inflate them and wonder if they really had any substance.

And so it was.

Until one night he wandered into a bar near Daisy's yoga studio to while away the time. He'd come early and found the door locked with no chance to ogle his girlfriend as she twisted her limbs into delicious shapes with exotic names.

The bar proved to be more of a slightly more upscale establishment than the corner bar- patrons dressed in everything from shirt sleeves to T-shirts, jeans to nice dress pants. Sidling up to the bar, he ordered a beer and nursed it.

He was really just in idle mode. Not really doing more than waiting and watching for Daisy. It was easy enough; he'd grabbed a stool at the bar and turned to look out the large glass windows. He'd be able to see her easily enough when she left the studio.

Then he saw her. She ws coming from the back near the washrooms. A raven-haired beauty with a body that offered more curves than LeMans. A raven-haired beauty with magnetic green eyes that offered a whole lot more than one man could dare provide.

A raven-haired beauty that looked exactly like. . . .

"Dr. Bren. . . ."

She stopped him before he could finish, grabbing his tie and drawing his face within inches of her own. "The name's Layla."

He sputtered. He gasped. He looked.

Her eyes held his and for a moment he tried not to look downward, but his eyes would not obey the warning signals in his brain.

So he looked.

She was dressed for a sinfully good time. Her blouse dipped low in front and revealed a satisfyingly enticing sight as well as a small dolphin that seemed to be leaping out from the hidden depths of the neckline.

"Dr. Br. . . ."

"Layla," she repeated, her voice reaching toward his groin. "Name's Layla."

He swallowed. And stared. Then swallowed again.

She released his tie just as a late model Pontiac Trans Am with tinted windows pulled to the curb outside the bar. "There's my ride." Tossing her hair, she sashayed out of the bar, every male and a few females watching her movement as she disappeared into the white car and was magically transported away.

Sweets just stared out the window toward where the car had vanished and wondered what he should do now.

Dr. Brennan had developed a leak.


	28. Sittin' on the dock of the bay

_**(Sittin on) the Dock of the Bay**_**, Otis Redding**

_By the third night, he expects it._

Dreams ravish her sleep and she begins to thrash wildly in bed, the impulses from somewhere deep in her primitive brain because her genius brain would fight the compulsion. He holds back from touching her—the first night she had practically slammed her knee into his groin. Instead, he begins a gentle murmuring like he might do with Parker to ease him from a bad dream, a soft reminder that he is there beside her, not her nightmare demons. 

_And his words—unintelligible gibberish at __3 o'clock in the morning__—ease her from the memories of captivity._

Only then, when her arms relax and her legs slow their mindless run from her tormentors, does he touch her.

"Bones?" he whispers into the night as if to dispel the evil. "Temperance, it's all right. It's all right, I'm here."

He whispers other names that he has given her, names that she shies from in the light, but here, in the dark he uses them to banish the fear that still stalks her, days later, years after.

And when the race from fear ends, he wraps his arm around her and molds his body to hers feeling the heat of her skin through her thin cotton nightgown. The first night she was soaked through and trembling and he woke her and helped her into dry clothes. But by the third night, the race is not so long, the heat not so great, and she slips back into a _dreamless sleep__._

oOo

He woke that fifth morning alone.

Reaching out, he felt the cool sheets.

Waking up alone usually didn't alarm him; their schedules and sleep habits sometimes warred with their mornings. But given recent events, he felt a certain possessiveness about knowing where she was.

"Bones?"

He rose stiffly and followed the trail of her voice, padding into the kitchen to find that she was just finishing breakfast.

"Two bodies were found just outside Remington, Virginia," she explained as a manner of greeting. "Cam is picking me up."

She'd already pulled her hair back into a ponytail, her bangs falling heavy over her eyes masking some of the puffiness around her left eye. Her eyelid was still heavy with the plum-colored swelling and gave her face an unintentional look of sadness.

"I wanted to let you sleep."

Well aware of how fragmented their nights had become, he knew why she had been reluctant to wake him early. It was the same reluctance to talk about what had happened.

"So much for death taking a holiday," he said as he slid into the seat opposite from her. His words were light, and he expected her to give him a look, one of those "I don't know what you mean" looks. But she didn't look up from sipping her orange juice.

"So you're not going to ride with Pancho and Cisco?"

No look. No reaction, except for a brief glance up.

"They're good men, Bones." He'd already talked to them, told them what to expect, told them how to treat his squints. He'd joked with her about giving them lessons on "The Care and Feeding of Squints," but she hadn't gotten the humor or had deliberately ignored it.

"You know, Cam will understand if you don't go out there."

"It's my job, Booth. The remains are partially skeletonized and Dr. Edison is not available."

Her tone wasn't something he had been expecting. It did not have that edge of annoyance he'd expect when he suggested something he knew she would not like. Hollow. That's it, he thought. It was as if she were simply saying what was expected of her without much conviction.

Hollow.

It really wasn't like her.

"I made coffee," she said. "Do you want me to make you breakfast?"

This tone he recognized. A tad hopeful, a tad apologetic.

"Just coffee," he said, rising before she could. "I don't think I want any of that cardboard stuff you eat."

This elicited a reaction she'd given him before. "It is a high fiber cereal made with whole grain and. . . ." She stopped and sighed, caught by his teasing. "I was thinking more along the lines of pancakes."

He pulled a cup from the cupboard and poured himself coffee. "Healthy pancakes," he continued. "Buckwheat or something." He smiled at her and was rewarded with one in return. "That's just not normal."

"You need more fiber in your diet, Booth."

Last week she might have begun with "a man of your age" before proceeding to outline ways in which he could prolong his life, but this week, a week in which they were both trying to be careful with the other, careful because they knew just what they might have lost, she had refrained from making an all-out assault on his habits.

_This week._ As he watched her as he idly sipped at his coffee, he found he was having trouble reading her. He understood fully why they were sharing his apartment. Besides the damage to hers, which was to be repaired today, there were the memories of the assault and the abduction. How much memory she had of either, he couldn't say.

Because she couldn't say. Or wouldn't.

He could guess what had happened—he'd seen the overturned chairs and shattered vases and splayed books. And the blood.

And he had seen the room in which she had been held. Cold and dark and dank.

He'd seen the damage she'd done to the one man and he knew how many shots it had taken to neutralize the second.

And he had seen the bruises peppering her fair skin.

He'd seen too much. But she hadn't said much about any of it. The only time she really did talk was in her sleep, when her entire body practically shouted about the fear and the agony and the horror of it all.

"Is Angela still talking about having a party Saturday?"

She nodded. "She says it is so that everyone can see the townhouse and the baby," she said. "But except for Caroline and Sweets, everyone has seen the townhouse."

"It's a party, Bones." He half-suspected Angela and Hodgins were throwing the party as much to celebrate the baby and to show-off the house as to toast Bones' safe return. "Sometimes people just like to get together with their friends and boogie."

The last word earned him a look he secretly cherished. It was Smarty Pants Brennan, anthropologist extraordinaire. "You mean the urban colloquialism meaning to dance in a fast and unrestrained fashion, a term thought to come from the Black West African English bogi 'to dance'?"

She'd bested him there and gave him that look: make no mistake, Temperance Brennan was the resident genius.

"We could boogie all night long," he said, smiling and waggling his eyebrows.

It was meant to make her laugh or break out another squinty definition or some sort of sexual challenge, but she refused to play. Instead, she seemed to be giving him another look, one he wasn't sure he liked as much.

Serious Brennan. _Super serious Brennan._ Given the past week, he wasn't sure he wanted to go there with her. Not minutes before Cam would arrive and whatever churning thoughts or emotions were left untamed.

But that look passed, too.

She was a finely tuned racecar with her emotions—the ones she allowed him to see these days—going from 0 to playful to serious to neutral in less than 3 seconds.

"What?"

If he pressed her, she might give him an inkling of what was going on in her oversized brain. But given the night terrors and the fact that she had camped out here in his apartment and had only gone to her own once since. . . .

The phone chirped and she bent to read the display. "Cam's downstairs."

She hesitated.

"If you need more time," he dangled the thought out there, "maybe you should take it."

"Why?"

He could think of five nights filled with whys, but she had been evasive about the nightmares. She rose, donned her jacket and placed her cell in the pocket. Before she could start clearing the table, he intercepted her and wrapped her in his arms.

She hung on a bit longer than she usually would. Or maybe he did.

And they kissed.

This communicated in ways her words couldn't.

Or maybe his couldn't.

But all too soon he watched her from the doorway, her messenger bag over her shoulder, taking the stairs without a glance backwards.

oOo

He'd asked her. Twice.

Each time she'd practically shut down and closed him out and he was tired of not knowing.

So when he hit Jeffery Silverman's office that morning, he wasn't sure if he was there out of frustration or concern.

Or fear.

Silverman looked up like he had been expecting him. "Not even a week, Booth. Figured you for a full week."

He laid it out, the official reason why he needed to see the file on the Chinese mob. Loose ends. Security concerns for the Jeffersonian. Maintain trust. Protect valuable assets.

Silverman looked at the piles of folders on his desk and selected the second in the middle pile and offered it to him.

He's seen that one. The one that Brennan had compiled on the dozen and a half murder victims traceable to the mob.

"Dr. Brennan's statement."

Silverman rocked back on his heels and shook his head. "Can't do."

"They're my people."

"Officially, I can't do it. Unofficially," he gave him that look he'd gotten from everyone there after he had pulled Brennan from that damned warehouse, "I'd want to read the file, too, if I was in your position, but I can't help you there."

"I just want to read Dr. Brennan's statement."

"I can't let you do that. I promised."

Not legal reasons. Not security protocols. Not some damned order from on high. Not "it's not your case."

_I promised._

"Booth," Silverman began, "that woman's going to be responsible for tying the mob to 18 or more murders over the last three years and I respect that. Damn it, I would have taken Paxton to the woodshed myself had they not gotten to him first, because to endanger her like that was completely inexcusable and sloppy. Damned stupid and arrogant and had I known, I might have decked him."

"But I promised Dr. Brennan that I wouldn't let you read the statement." He arched his eyebrows and gave Booth a long, hard look. "I'd give up red meat and cold beer for her if she'd ask," he said, "because we need to keep our promises to people like her."

For the second time that day, Booth felt like he was watching her slip away from him.

"Unofficially," Silverman started again after a long, long pause, "I can tell you that they wanted to terrify her as long as possible. You know, make her think they were torturing Paxton in the next room, start and stop their little torture machine, demonstrate what they were planning on doing. When she fought back and knocked out one of the two offenders, the other chose to use drugs on her."

"There's nothing else, Booth, really. You were with her at the hospital. You know how she was there," Silverman shrugged. "Your Chinese guy kept telling us she was _shén jīng bìng_, crazy, you know. The other one won't be doing much talking for a while. He got off lucky if you ask me."

He thanked Silverman and turned to leave.

"Booth?"

He turned back.

"Give her time. She has to be one tough woman inside and out to take what she did and not crack."

"What?" Booth hadn't heard this part of the story. He'd gotten a Cliff's Notes version less than a week ago and there were still too many questions he needed to have answered. "She gave them a list of the murder victims." He had wondered if she had shut down because of that. The damned Chinese wanted to check to see if the FBI had caught up to all the bodies they'd strewn up and down the coast.

"Yeah," Silverman chortled, "she gave them a list of murder victims, descriptions and the like. But none of them match any of the people who were actually killed by the Chinese."

"She made them up."

oOo

How do you love a genius?

How can you not?

Standing in the doorway of her office, he watched the concentration that seemed uniquely hers. The intensity of her eyes as she scanned the image in front of her never failed to draw him in as well; sometimes he wondered what she saw with that genius brain of hers.

Like most workdays for her, this one started much too early and ran much too late and if he had had a better day himself he might have pulled her from the lab earlier. But nothing these days seemed to be working as it should.

"You know, you can save some of the answers of the universe for tomorrow," he said hoping she took it with the same lightness he meant it.

She looked up and the picture of intensity dissolved.

The injured eye seemed to droop more after a day of work and he could tell she was tired.

"How'd it work out with Pancho and Cisco?"

"Booth, neither Kennen nor Collins is Hispanic nor are either of them desperadoes, so I don't understand why you refer to them as two iconic Mexican characters from a 1960s television show."

"Someone's been Googling."

"Cam calls them the Doublemint twins." She eyed him. "While it's even more troubling since neither of them resembles the other, I don't even understand why the two of you persist in providing them with nicknames at all."

He knew this mood. He knew that it was better to duck and take cover rather than expose oneself to the inevitable shrapnel.

"They're amusing, Bones." He stood at the edge of her desk and tried to figure out what was making her so irritable.

"They're inaccurate and confusing."

"But they're your FBI guys until I get back. It shouldn't be much longer."

Something shifted. It was subtle, but years as her partner, studying her, knowing her as he did, he could see the change. He decided a different direction was needed. Quickly.

"I thought I could keep you company."

She said nothing.

"You know, hang out here."

Her whole body seemed to twist as if it were trying to work out a kink.

"Spend some time."

"You want sex."

"No, I mean, yes, but no, not now." The whole attitude was cold, clinical Bones. "That's not why I came here. I thought you might want to go back to my place or get something to eat. You don't have to solve the case tonight."

She looked at him with that cool, assessing look she had, the one in which she seemed to be sizing something up and he was little more than a pile of bones on a slab.

"So how close are you to catching the murderer?"

Even this was the wrong thing to say. "I don't actually catch murderers, Booth. I simply. . . ."

"Bones. . . ."

". . . Provide invaluable assistance in identifying victims. . . ."

". . . I only came by to take. . . ."

". . . To law enforcement officers who then. . . ."

". . . You to dinner. I. . . ."

". . . Use that information to help them apprehend and convict. . . ."

"Stop." He held up his hands in surrender. "Just stop, Bones. I know what you do. I know what everyone here does."

She glared and he had no idea what he'd said to set her off. He had the vague notion that it might be the distress finally jumping from her dreams into the daylight, but he wasn't sure.

"Then if you are fully aware of everyone's function, then you must be aware that I have a great deal of work to do."

The tone was decidedly chilly.

"You have to eat, Bones."

"I'm fully aware of what my body needs, Booth."

He released his breath and decided to retreat. "I'll see you later then."

"I'm going to my apartment tonight."

That stopped him in his tracks. "That's a good idea." He kept his tone light while his own insides were roiling. "You can check to see how the workmen did and I can bring some takeout."

"Alone." She offered him only a glance. "I'd like to be alone tonight."

Her eyes revealed nothing, just that stubborn streak.

"Alone?"

"Yes." She turned back to the laptop on her desk, dismissing him. "I have a great deal of work to do."

He tried to wait, tried to give her an opportunity to explain, but she had silence down and wasn't giving him any idea what had just happened or why.

How do you love a genius?

At that moment, he figured out the punchline: _Very carefully_.

oOo

Cam's lab offered only an empty slab and the vague shadow of a body in the cooler at the end of the room

Hodgins' bug world contained creepy, crawly things and plants, but no Jack.

So he wasn't expecting a real live person in Angela's office.

Instead he got two.

Angela was juggling the baby in one arm as she was trying to pack things into a diaper bag while keeping an eye on her computer screen that was zipping through images at a breakneck speed.

"Hey, hey," he said taking the baby from her. "Your momma needs a couple more arms, slugger."

"And probably a new job," she groused and gave him a withering look, "especially after today."

"Bad case?"

She stopped midway through zipping up the diaper bag and dropped it to the table.

"You don't know the half of it." She grabbed her controller and hit a few keys. The images seemed to slow down. He could make out that they were of faces.

The baby closed its eyes although its hands reached up to grasp bits of air and then release them.

"No ID yet?"

She gave him a look.

"Ange, you're the best." He gauged how his compliment landed. The scowl told him he'd have to try much, much harder.

"When are you going to stop playing catch-the-counterfeiter and start playing catch-the-murderer again?"

He let out the breath he'd been holding and held tighter to the baby. Angela's tone too closely mirrored Brennan's attitude.

"Look, it's going to take a couple of days, but it'll work out. Kennen and Collins are pros. This will all work out."

The scowl deepened. The baby was oblivious to the danger he was in.

"Bones will be fine. A few days and you'll all get used to. . . ."

"No!"

She advanced on him and he could think of no other time in which Angela had ever made him feel so concerned for his own life.

He held the baby even tighter.

"Brennan's not the problem, Booth." She shook her head, grimaced and shook her head again. "Sure, I think she could have taken a couple more days off, but I always think that. It's your FBI guys."

"Ange, there's always going to be a bit of a shaking out period with new people."

"Shaking out?" She huffed. "Booth, they were. . . they were just. . . ergghhhggh-grrrhhh!"

oOo

"Seeley, it wasn't just one thing they did," Cam said as she downed the shot of rye. Picking up the beer, she then set down the bottle almost immediately again. "Everyone set about to do their job, but they were just. . . ." She closed her eyes and shook her head and he knew nothing good was going to come out of this. "They were just not you."

He didn't want to think about it. After his talk with Angela, which had left him just as unsettled as his conversation with Bones, he had thought to make one more try with Bones, but when he looked across at her office the lights were off.

He could rescue her from Chinese thugs but not from the long hours at the Jeffersonian.

Or from the latest FBI guys.

He'd sought out Cam for a drink and an explanation of why he'd managed to piss off two women in one day without having spent more than a few minutes with each.

"Cam," he said, "it's not going to be forever. Just a little while longer and I'll wrap up the fraud case. Then we'll all be back together, one happy little squint family."

He realized, too late, that he had managed a trifecta: he'd pissed off a third woman.

"A little while longer?"

"Cam, it's out of my hands."

"They managed to irritate Angela, Seeley. _Angela_. They'd already got to Brennan, but we all expected that. _But Angela?"_

He leaned back in his seat. If he were being perfectly honest, the fraud case was languishing. Fletcher had been as much a fraud as the cases he handed him—he'd already pulled strings to keep him on the gift card case and had managed to keep him so busy dealing with other cases, he hadn't had the time to really crack it. And Tracy Lord, the woman he was dealing with, was tough. She wasn't giving up any of her secrets no matter how charming he was, no matter how much surveillance he ordered.

He was stuck in limbo.

Oh, he didn't miss dead bodies or notifying families of their loss, but he did miss the squints. And the lab.

And working with Bones. Especially that.

"Bones isn't going out into the field with them, Cam. It'll be okay."

He had no idea if it would be okay or not. He only hoped. He had basically ordered Kennen and Collins not to go out into the field with Brennan unless they had a SWAT team to back them up, but he knew that he couldn't expect them to keep her in bubble wrap for long. Someone or something would draw her out into the field and he didn't trust anyone beside himself to protect her.

"Brennan trusts you. We all do, Seeley." Cam wasn't about to pull any punches. "I think we all feel safer working with you. Brennan would not have been needlessly endangered like that had you been working the case. In fact, we all would have been taken care of. Paxton never considered us to be targets and he should have."

"Cam, once I clear the fraud case, I'll be back working with Bones and the lab. Promise."

"But we also trust that you'll take what we have to say seriously. That you'll remember that it takes a while for test results. That you'll respect us." He couldn't retreat from Cam's eyes. "This is just the first day, Seeley. Tomorrow I'm expecting all-out revolt."

oOo

He'd let the TV drown out the thoughts, but once it was turned off and he'd gone to bed, he couldn't quite shut them out any longer.

In fact, he lay in bed staring into the darkness, all too aware of the vacancy on his right side.

He could blame everything on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and anyone who didn't know Bones would have signed onto that explanation for her nightmares and anger. He knew the truth about the anger: she and the others were simply suffering from Paxton-Time Stress Disorder. No one, including himself, wanted to speak ill of the dead. But he'd made the mistake of trusting Paxton to do the right thing by Bones and by the squints. All Paxton had done was follow the FBI bible chapter and verse and had left Bones and the others vulnerable.

Pancho and Cisco. . . . Erase that. Kennen and Collins had thought things went well. He'd called Kennen on the way home from the bar, certain he'd hear another tale of misery, but the man had only one complaint—the lab results seemed to come in slowly, a bit too slowly for their tastes.

"They seem a bit set in their ways, Booth," Kennen had pointed out. "But if you say they're the best, then we'll work with them."

Collins, too, had painted a rosy picture although he hadn't been entirely complimentary.

"It's kind of like walking on broken glass with them, isn't it?" he had said. "They're very, very touchy."

He tried to close his eyes and will it all away if just to get some sleep and have a different perspective in the morning when the phone rang. Fraud cases didn't usually warrant late-night calls so, given everything that had happened so far, he figured it was Rebecca calling to complain about something he'd done or didn't do. _Might as well, _he thought. _Then I can start pissing off the other half of the population tomorrow. _

The caller ID told him a different story.

It took him a full two seconds—and another ring—before he answered it.

"Booth?" Bones' voice was hesitant. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"No," he stated honestly. "Is everything all right?"

"No," she sighed. "Yes. Everything is all right. I'm fine." He could hear her breathe out as if she were preparing to make some great statement of truth she'd just discovered. "My father said it would be important to talk to you. I'm not sure why."

His hand traced an arc on the right side where Bones should have been. He wasn't sure where the conversation was going, but he was grateful to Max. He'd just pick a topic to keep her talking. "How's the apartment?"

"It's good. The clean-up and repairs were done well."

"I can come over." He tried to wash hope from his voice.

"No, it's late and you need your sleep. Besides," she offered, her voice taking on an odd edginess, "my father's here. He's going to spend the night."

"Good. That's good."

He didn't know if it was good or not, just that he was glad someone would be there for her when the night terrors became too much.

"Are you still going to the memorial service tomorrow?"

It was another thing that Paxton never understood. He'd managed to alienate the squints yet they wouldn't allow their personal feelings—_their very justifiable feelings_—from doing what they considered to be the right thing. They'd honor him in death.

"Do you want me to pick you up?"

"I'm going with Angela and Hodgins."

He closed his eyes and wondered if he shouldn't just sit in the back of the church and let Angela and Hodgins deal with Bones and her questions about the Catholic requiem mass. It might distract Angela from being angry with him.

"Then I'll probably see you there."

In the silence that followed, he wondered if that was the wrong thing to say.

"Bones?" he listened for her breathing. "Are you still there?"

He waited a while longer. "Bones?"

"I'm not sure why I called, Booth, except," he could hear all kinds of possibilities in his head, "I find that I feel better in talking to you."

"I'm glad you called." And he was. A talking, shouting, berating Brennan was much better than a silent one. "I'll see you at the memorial service tomorrow."

This time he made sure there wasn't any hesitancy in his voice.

"Booth, would you like to come to dinner here tomorrow?"

In her question was a peace offering. "Yeah. I'd like that." He halted, then decided he'd test the waters. If nothing else, it would keep her talking. "Could we have some real food? I don't want to eat rabbit food or that cardboard you eat."

oOo

The whispers began the moment they walked into the church. St. Patricks opened up into a huge space filled with old-fashioned statuary that he knew would elicit a wave of questions from the woman at his side, but he didn't care. She'd met him outside and slipped her hand in his and he really didn't care about her potential questions or comments or the whispers as they made their way into the church.

She'd smiled and kissed him and slipped her hand into his and nothing else mattered.

He knew what the smattering of FBI agents scattered throughout the church were whispering.

"_There she is."_

He made a point to look in Kennen and Collins' direction, made a point to look their way and dare them to dispute just how important she was.

"_That's her."_

She had survived. She had been the only woman to be taken by the Chinese and the only person to hold them off. And she'd taken out one of her abductors and identified the other two and had he not shown up when he did, she might have figured out a way to neutralize the other man.

And she'd given them nothing.

"_It's her."_

She'd given them nothing except a long list of unsolved murders solved. She'd given them years behind bars once the convictions came down. She'd given them the end of the Chinese on the East coast.

"Dr. Brennan? Booth?"

Hodgins caught his attention with a loud whisper and Booth steered them toward the pew where Cam and Angela waited. He let Bones enter first and then he genuflected, made the sign of the cross and gave another glare to Kennen and Collins.

If Brennan were aware of the whispers, she didn't let on. He was sure she was more interested in the iconography than the people. She seemed especially taken with the statue of the Blessed Mother holding the body of her Son.

He looked closely at her face when she turned to him. Her left eye looked better, taking on that odd greenish-yellow tint around the edges that told him it was healing.

"It's a pretty horrific image," Bones said. "But the artist did a fine job recreating the skeletal structure."

oOo

It took him mere seconds to recognize the bluesy sounds emanating from the stereo when he let himself in. _"I'm just sittin' on the dock of the bay, wastin' time. . . ."_

It seemed an odd lyric for the squintiest of the squints, a workaholic who bested even himself or Cam. It also seemed odd to see Max Keenan busy at work at the stove.

"Hey, Booth," he said as he slid the ingredients from bowl into a pot on the stove. "I hope you like vegetarian goulash."

The smell was inviting enough. He snuck a peek as well as a carrot from beside the chopping block.

"Here," Max said, handing him a baster and pointed toward the oven, "why don't you check on our food? Tempe laid down when she got in and I think she fell asleep."

Booth opened the oven to a see a small bird roasting under an aluminum tent.

"It's capon," Max said. "A man's got to have some meat and Tempe, well, she's going to insist that her tofu and such is just as good." He gave him a wistful look. "No matter how good everything is, it's just not enough sometimes."

Booth grinned as he basted the bird, then grabbed himself a beer and watched as Max put a pot of water on to boil.

In some ways, he thought, Max had it figured out. His presence was a promise kept, a way to stay in his daughter's life even if it meant doing so on her terms. A compromise, of sorts, that benefitted them both.

And it all came down to promises.

It fit well with the decision he had made that morning while shaving. He was tired of the fraud case, tired of watching the people he cared about making compromises while he just muddled along waiting for a break.

He had a promise to keep.

And when the reason for the promise came into the kitchen, he realized he was making the right decision.

He might lose his job over this, but he didn't care. It was the right thing to do for the people he loved.

For the woman he loved.

"So Bones," he said as he kissed her hello, "how'd you like to go undercover?"


	29. Help

**Help: The Beatles**

"No, Dr. Brennan. No."

He seemed to be on the verge of some sort of emotional explosion, something she was just not prepared to handle.

"You have to tell me. Tell someone. I don't believe that you've been totally untouched by the whole business with the Chinese, Dr. Brennan. I saw you in that outfit pretending to be someone else. . . . You need help."

She'd insisted her father drive her here to the Hoover and wait in the car—_which he was only glad to do_—uncertain how far Max might go to conceal what they were doing. She trusted her father to a point but beyond that. . . . Well, his suggestion that they abduct the young psychologist and hold him until they were done or send him on a one-way trip in a packing crate to Greenland hadn't given her much confidence in her father at the moment.

"Layla. _Layla?_ You're some sort of Eric Clapton song! And then you drive off in some muscle car like a scene out of the movies."

"A 1969 Pontiac Trans Am."

"And how do you know anything about cars?"

She had really come here just to head off trouble, but trouble had refused to veer despite her attempt to rationally explain to Sweets that he simply needed to trust that what she was doing was not a sign of a mental or emotional breakdown.

Or a betrayal of her relationship with Booth.

"I rebuilt the carburetor of a 1932 Packard roadster."

"That's fascinating." Sweets collapsed into his chair while she remained standing. She'd appealed to his rational side, but when that failed she was entirely uncertain how best to persuade him to let go of the image of her at that bar. "I could buy a weird sexual dress-up game between you and Agent Booth, but he's not even in town and someone had to be driving that. . . .

"Nineteen-sixty-nine Pontiac Trans Am. . . ."

"Whatever." He harrumphed. "I don't think a simple, '_Trust me', _is sufficient, Dr. Brennan. Right now, anything and everything you do is suspect."

"Dr. Saroyan has indicated that you have been taking time off from your job." Sweets was gathering steam building his case. "You're working your hours in the lab, but they're at odd times of the day and night. Granted, she's felt no compunction to question it because of the great respect she has for you and for the work you do, but given what I saw last night, I had no choice but to inform her that your behavior was highly questionable."

"Sweets. . . ," she began, but he cut her off.

"I've already informed Dr. Saroyan that I believe you are in need of some time off from your duties at the Jeffersonian and I will inform the FBI that your mental state is much too fragile right now to continue as a consultant to the bureau." Sweets leaned forward and held her eyes with his. "You've gone through a very traumatic event and that, along with the myriad other events that you've experienced and never dealt with have had a cumulative effect on your psyche."

She really couldn't tell Sweets the truth since it would only endanger his job. To tell Cam would only put her career in the same kind of jeopardy. What was that expression? Between an aggregate of minerals or organic material, and a hard place?

And without Booth there to talk to, to talk to Sweets and assure him she had not undergone some sort of psychological break, she really only had one choice.

"All right," she said, moving to sit on the couch opposite from Sweets. "If I agree to therapy will you hold off on telling the FBI to terminate my services?"

The pause concerned her. He seemed surprised that she had acquiesced, suspicious even if she was reading him correctly. But she saw no alternative. Sweets finally began to slowly nod.

"If you agree to therapy and promise to actually share your feelings regarding the abduction and the time in which you were held," said Sweets, "then I will hold off informing the FBI that they should discontinue your services."

"But only if you enter into therapy in the same spirit in which it is offered," he corrected himself almost immediately. "And the topics may need to range far afield from the abduction in order to best determine the state of your mental health as well as the best course of treatment."

She took a moment to study the young man. She'd read Faust and understood the concept of selling one's soul to the devil although she did not believe in souls nor in the devil. While the parallels to her current dilemma were not completely equal in nature, as irrational as it was, they seemed close enough. And given how much was at stake, close enough would have to do.

She just wasn't comfortable with any of this.

"If I agree, will you agree to recommend that Booth and I remain as partners?"

"I cannot agree to that, Dr. Brennan. Your partnership with Agent Booth might be at the heart of what is troubling you."

At that moment she fought the urge to lash out or to simply leave, choosing to simply ignore Sweets and his comments for what they were—vague, smug drivel that he spouted as psychology. What she was doing was meant to protect people—Cam and Angela and Hodgins and Booth _and_ Sweets as well as the countless people being defrauded. But leaving would only invite more questions and guarantee a larger problem; staying meant she could control some of the answers and perhaps, the final outcome.

"How many sessions?" Like any story, this one needed a beginning, middle and end. Especially an end.

"C'mon, Dr. Brennan. I can't predict how many sessions will be needed in order to right the ship." He spread his hands. "I could say 20. . . ."

"One."

He looked incredulous.

"_I am_ a genius."

"Which certainly could also be part of the problem."

Psychology was filled with incalculable possibilities and few probabilities, she thought. Any action or trait could be presented as evidence of a problem when, in fact, it might actually be an adaptive solution to environmental factors. She hated the inexactitude of psychology.

And she hated the thought of becoming Sweets' lab rat.

"Is it the abduction and threat of electrocution, Booth, my being a genius or something else at the heart of the problem in your estimation?" She tried to remain calm, impervious to his suggestions, but the muddled lines of psychology were irritating to her. "I do not see my behavior as anything more than a lifestyle choice."

"I won't know, Dr. Brennan, until I get a chance to look under the hood, so to speak." Sweets grimaced. "I had hoped to be proactive in dealing with any pertinent issues through partner's counseling."

"You are saying that what I did might hurt Booth." She thought she'd try one of her father's suggestions. "I won't do it again."

"No, Dr. Brennan." Sweets was shaking his head and she knew then that Max was being facetious. "I can recognize a cry for help when I see one."

She considered his use of mixed metaphors just as she weighed the value of keeping what she and Max and Booth were doing secret. _"Sometimes the good of many outweigh the good of the few," Booth had said when they began this venture. _And she had accepted his statement as an apt maxim just as she would have to accept Sweets' conditions. It was a matter of the greater good.

"The Indian people have a word for this. Dharmasankat."

Sweets leaned back in his chair. "I'll go as low as ten sessions, Dr. Brennan. Twice a week. No cell phones. No interruptions. Full, one-hour sessions."

"I could report you to the FBI for having sexual intercourse with Daisy Wick in this office during office hours."

"Five. And that's my final offer." He squirmed. "What's this dharmasankat?"

"Three. Booth will back me up on that." 

"Not if you're cheating on him." She wondered if Sweets was all right. He looked positively flushed. "You were saying about this dharmasankat."

"In Indian spirituality it implies a moral or ethical quandary where the choice of any possible options would result in a breach of one's dharma."

Sweets half-smiled. "If you were a religious person, I might accept that that is relevant in some way. But it doesn't explain the other persona you adopted. This Layla."

"_Dharma_ is Sanskrit, loosely translated, it means law or duty. _Sankat_ means trouble."

"That's all very fascinating, Dr. Brennan," Sweets said, warming to his argument, "but if you want me to agree to allowing you to work with the FBI, then you will need to be forthcoming."

Years ago when she had first started working with Booth, she had studied him, partly because he fascinated her, partly because she wanted to understand him. She hadn't spent as much time studying Sweets except in their sessions, but she knew that he was not likely to back down this time, even if she embarrassed him to his superiors. She considered her options and found them wanting.

_Dharmasankat_.

"When do we begin the sessions?"

"We can begin them right now, if you would like, Dr. Brennan."

He smiled tightly and she realized she had made the best deal under the circumstances. Max would be gone by the time she was done, but that couldn't be helped. They were on a strict timetable. She took a deep breath and steeled herself.

"I have nightmares."

oOo

She let the last of the water cascade around and over her, easing the tensions of the day and providing the one last refuge from the world. And what she had to do that night.

"Sweetie?" she heard Angela call, "your father called. He's running a bit late."

Turning off the water, she opened the glass door and reached for a towel.

While it wasn't a rational response, she had felt off-balance most of the day. After her session with Sweets at the Hoover, Cam had met her at the doors of the lab and wanted to understand why Sweets had insisted that she needed to be in therapy.

"_He has a misguided impression of me based on someone he met," she had told Cam. It had the weight of truth behind it. And both Booth and her father had emphasized the need to keep her story simple. _

"_Sweets originally thought you needed some time off, Dr. Brennan. He had recommended that you not be allowed to work on cases for the FBI and now he's given you a' caution flag.'" Cam seemed confused, if she was reading her correctly. "He wouldn't elaborate." _

"_I suggest, Dr. Saroyan, that you be the judge of my ability as a forensic anthropologist as our two disciplines are better aligned and intersect quite often." She had been almost desperate to drop this conversation for a lab coat and the set of WWI remains in the bone room. "And since I am currently scheduled to see Sweets for several more sessions, I can assure you I have taken appropriate measures to ameliorate his concerns."_

"_Yes, Dr. Brennan, I know," Cam had said, her exasperation easily discerned, "but I think I have the right to know, as the boss, what the hell is going on."_

And that should have been the end of it, but Cam had spent entirely too much time that day shadowing her. It had only been another irritant in a day filled with irritants.

Slipping on her underwear, then her robe, she padded out of the bathroom into her bedroom where Angela was sitting on her bed. Her friend was holding up the dress she'd be wearing that night. The baby was fast asleep on the bed.

The wig and shoes and other accessories were carefully laid out on Booth's half of the bed.

"Booth must be a little upset he's not here for this," Angela said. "It's probably a dream all men have, to be able to sleep with two different women and not really be cheating."

She didn't quite understand what Angela meant since she was merely playing a role. Layla, she thought, was a creation of several people but ultimately just her. Brennan let Angela's comment go unanswered.

"So what did Booth say when you told him?" Angela handed her the dress. "He must have been a little concerned that Sweets knows about the other woman in his life."

Wriggling into the tight dress was probably not the best time to talk, but Brennan finally found air and light and turned so her friend could zip up the back.

"Booth said, 'Better you than me.'" That she understood perfectly well.

"Typical."

She was grateful for Angela's smile that took the sting out of facing down Sweets and Cam in one morning.

"Just think, he's going to miss you in this."

Even with her hair still damp, she could tell looking in the full-length mirror that the final result would be sexually alluring to their target. The green dress showcased her breasts, including the dolphin tattoo Angela had insisted on as part of her disguise. The bodice hugged her tightly and the skirt flowed gently from her waist, shimmering in the light. The fabric moved easily, almost sensuously, as Angela stood behind her smoothing the lines of the dress at her hips.

She caught Angela's eye in the mirror and smiled. "On the other hand, Sweetie," said Angela, her own smile warm and reassuring, "Booth's going to miss tearing this off of you."

oOo

True intelligence, she had understood a long, long time ago, was to fully understand and accept one's limitations. Certainly there were some things she would willingly almost enthusiastically try, sure that she could master them given her abilities, but this was one thing she was so uncertain of she almost wished she had agreed to wait until Booth returned.

Lying.

Sitting in the Italian restaurant where she hoped to put the second half of their plan into action, she considered the likelihood of their success. Lies never came easily to her. Only in the last several years, usually in the guise of trying to elicit information from a suspect or delve deeper into a case, had she been able to lie and then only when Booth was next to her.

Tonight she was on her own.

True, Angela and Jack would be at a nearby table at the restaurant while her father would wait outside in the Pontiac, ready to intervene the moment things went awry.

But Booth would be in Pennsylvania waiting to wrap up a theft case.

She sucked in her breath and released it slowly.

The plan was simple, her father had assured her. In almost two weeks time she had been developing a relationship with one Willy Bowman, a bank manager at the Plymouth 1st Bank and Trust branch in D.C. It didn't hurt that not only did she work there part time 3 days a week now, but she also bumped into the 45-year-old outside of work with surprising regularity thanks to her father and Booth.

"Just think of it as speed dating, honey," Angela had told her. "Just he doesn't know it yet."

The concept had eluded her, but the results were frequent meetings with Bowman. Between Angela, Booth and her father, she had adopted Layla Knowles and turned her into a bit of a femme fatale ala Rita Hayworth in "The Lady from Shanghai."

It was fairly easy to play the Elsa Bannister character. It just wasn't always easy to explain herself. "How the hell do you know Rita Hayworth, and 'The Lady from Shanghai,'" Hodgins had asked, "but you have no clue what 'Mission: Impossible' is?"

As she sat at the table in the restaurant waiting for her fictitious boyfriend to fictitiously stand her up, she wondered how much closer they were to determining if Bowman was the mastermind behind the gift card fraud or if they were just spinning their tires.

She'd followed her father's advice to maintain a professional profile at the bank. ("It'll show Bowman that you're serious," he'd said. "Competent on the job.") Angela had added the touch of the mysterious boyfriend who had probably beaten her—her black eye at the hands of the Chinese had helped sell that part of the story—and had masterminded her wardrobe: cool professional at the bank, "hot and willing" outside banker's hours. ("Some men like that kind of woman," she'd offered, glancing pointedly at Booth, "and Bowman seems the type.") Booth had provided a profile on their suspect as well as a background story and work history ("A bank manager, Bones, is going to have access to all kinds of information about employees," Booth had explained, "and yours has to be airtight.") Between Angela, Booth and her father, Layla Knowles had a Maryland driver's license, an extensive resume complete with references, an apartment, an old Toyota Camry and enough credit cards to make her an average 34-year-old female professional living a bit too far above her means.

Combined with the abusive boyfriend, Layla Knowles was a woman in need of rescue.

And they all hoped that she could get Willy Bowman to be her rescuer.

oOo

"Would you like to wait a few more moments, miss?"

The waiter, well-proportioned and barely over 20, had hovered at her table most of the evening. _"It would be a sin for a woman, dressed like this," Angela had said when the final touches were made on her disguise earlier that night, "to be sitting alone anywhere." _

"He's a real fool for not showing up," said the waiter under his breath.

She pursed her lips, shifted uncomfortably and ordered a second glass of wine.

Angela and Hodgins were a few tables away, enjoying their dinners and conversation as she finished her first glass of wine. And waited. "Pacing," Angela had said, "pacing is everything."

Sit at a table and wait. It wasn't much of an act to look and act dejected. All she had to do was think of Booth in Pennsylvania chasing down his suspects while she'd spent the better part of the week dealing with the final details on a murder case for the FBI, identification of remains found on Blood Mountain in Georgia, notes on an article for a forensic journal, and work at Plymouth.

Oh, and Sweets. Yes, Sweets.

She had absolutely surprised him with her revelations about the dreams. Never mind that she had already told Booth about them and they had evaporated in the telling. Telling Sweets had been a ploy, much like her act as Layla Knowles, but in some way telling him about the dreams had made her feel better. Lighter. It wasn't rational, since dreams in and of themselves had no discernible weight, but it was so.

She considered the heterographs, wait and weight, as she sat there. To wait, as she was, carried its own special weight, a paradoxical construct. Much like a dream, wait time had no specific gravity, yet it weighed her down with doubt. The others had speculated that Bowman might take pity her plight and sit down with her. Strike up a conversation. Turn their professional association into something more personal.

And in doing so, tip his hand about his involvement with the gift cards.

"You're the cheese, honey," her father had said. "Bowman's the mouse and Booth is the cat."

Booth hadn't liked being equated with cats anymore than she liked playing the cheese in this scenario.

Even as Layla Knowles she did not like to appear so vulnerable.

She glanced over to where Angela and Hodgins sat and caught her friend's signal.

Bowman had entered the restaurant.

He was a pleasant enough man. Attractive. Endomorphic build. He'd acknowledged her work ethic at the bank, struck up conversations with her outside of office hours when he "accidentally" ran into her. Most of their conversations were what Booth would label, chit chat.

She watched Bowman interact with the hostess.

Her father had somehow managed to make sure that Bowman's date would not show up. She gave little thought to how he had managed that.

The hostess pointed toward the dining area and in that instant she caught Bowman's eye.

He smiled and headed toward her. Angela gave her a signal wishing her luck which reminded her of an earlier conversation.

"_Just remember to put more femme into the femme fatale, Sweetie," Angela had offered. _

"Seems I'm without a dinner companion," Bowman said. He smiled and she could tell he had taken in the empty wine glass beside the second, mostly full glass. "I hate to eat alone."

"I seem to be stood up as well," she said. Layla smiled sadly. "We could always eat together."

"That," said Bowman, "would be the highlight of my evening."

oOo

"He's into you, Bren," Angela said as they met in the restroom.

"I've noticed several physiological responses," Brennan offered, listing the telltale signs of sexual interest.

"And?"

"And he has indicated more than once that someone like me should not be with someone as insensitive as Artie."

Angela smiled and leaned against the sink. "Remind me to watch that movie sometime, Sweetie."

Brennan took a deep breath and paused, her hand on the door. "I just have to convince him that Layla is desperate to leave him but can't."

"Given Layla's finances," Angela quipped, "the only way you'll leave him is if you start committing fraud."

"Which," Brennan said, tossing her head confidently, "is exactly what I have to convince him I'm willing to do."

Brennan wound her way back to the table and felt some small measure of relief. She'd managed—well, Layla managed—to keep the conversation afloat, relying on Booth's tutelage in sports and Angela's insights into men, and for the first time that evening, thought that they might just have a chance at finding out the truth.

"Your boyfriend doesn't know what he's missing tonight," Bowman said as he stood and held out the seat for her.

Brennan might object, but Layla ducked her head and accepted the offered assistance gracefully.

"Vegetarian and strict limit on wine," Bowman said as he sat down opposite her, "I'd have to guess that you're not much into sweets, either. Just a little after-dinner coffee? That all right?"

She nodded and was glad the evening was winding down.

"I didn't realize what kind of treasure we had at the bank, Miss Knowles."

Not sure of what to say, she said nothing.

"You're all buttoned down at work, but here," Bowman smiled and she saw his interest flare, "you're someone else entirely."

"Artie likes me to wear nice things," she said. "Special things for him."

"And he leaves you here all alone," Bowman countered.

"Sometimes I think you stay with someone out of habit," she said. "Or sometimes you're stuck."

Bowman leaned in. "And which are you?"

Before she could answer, she saw Hodgins signaling to her. She ignored him. "After being together almost 7 years, it's a bit of both."

She stood up suddenly, barely catching her napkin. "Artie might not show up here for dinner and all, but if I'm not at my place, or if he sees us here together. . . ." She let the idea trail off.

Bowman leaned in further. "What if I could give you a way out?"

"Mr. Bowman, I. . . I. . . ," she caught Hodgins' eye briefly. Something was wrong. "I don't think there's a way out for me. Sometimes you just have to play the cards you're dealt."

"All right," he said, leaning back. "Go on. I don't want Artie giving you another black eye."

Her hand went to her left eye. "He's not such a bad guy."

"No man should ever lay a hand on a woman. Not on a woman like yourself."

She barely heard the last words. Hodgins had not moved. "I really have to go, Mr. Bowman." She grabbed her purse and pulled out a few bills and laid them quickly on the table. "Sometimes a person's just stuck where they are and that's that."

If Bowman responded, she didn't hear it. Grabbing her coat, she pulled it on as she walked quickly to the door. She glanced back to see if she could catch Bowman's reaction, but by the time she turned back to the door Hodgins had disappeared.

Outside the restaurant, the night seemed to have swallowed up Hodgins and Angela. Turning the corner toward the parking lot, she caught sight of Angela's van parked near the Camry. There was no sign of Max or the Pontiac.

Glancing behind her, she turned back toward the van. Hodgins rolled down the window and beckoned her closer.

"Hop in, Dr. B," Hodgins said.

"Why?" She scanned the parking lot. "Where's my dad?"

"Sweetie," she heard Angela's voice and saw her friend lean toward the open window, "please get in the van. Booth's been shot."


	30. I Walk the Line

**I Walk the Line: Johnny Cash**

It shouldn't have gone down like that.

It really shouldn't.

But that's always what you say in situations like this.

Call comes into the station that there's a loony in the local Slurpie City waving a gun. Shots fired. Witnesses can't say how many civilians are in the shop.

Car 871, Officers Matt Harding, Bob Mayne respond. I'm picking up the family cleaning two blocks away. Practically drop my little girl's first communion dress in the street. Dispatch tells me there's an FBI agent on the scene as well.

I don't question it. Dispatch clues me in as I stuff the dress into my vehicle and race the two blocks. Potential hostage situation. Little Maggie will understand.

I'm second on scene. FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth is already there. Says this might be the guy he's been following. With two more good guys to arrive, Booth takes up Charlie position in the back alley. He's dressed in civvies but he's got a vest on, gun drawn. I give him my second radio and he disappears toward the back.

I cover the front. Agent Booth radios he's in position.

Harding and Mayne are three minutes behind.

Here's the scenario: Suspect was in a convenience store making it inconvenient for the clerk or customers to leave. Cracked up. Began waving his gun like a flag: come and get me.

So we did.

FBI Agent Seeley Booth radioed he had a clear view: he had that SOB dead to rights and was requesting permission to take the shot. Take him out. Save the day. Big fat hero.

But here's the thing: we lost contact with Charlie. Radio went dead all of a sudden. Not even static.

Harding and Mayne arrive wearing vests and I give them the situation. Mayne's about to go around to the back when something happened.

Something happened?

All hell broke loose. Heard shots fired from inside. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

I gave the order to enter immediately. Go. Go. Go.

Enter the store and there's one man and one woman cowering under the checkout counter in the front. Hands up, scared shitless. Mayne falls back to cover them, lead them out. Harding's still at my left rear as my wingman.

More shots from the rear of the store. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Shouting. Glass breaking. A cloud of dust and crap so thick it was hard to see.

Harding and I split up. It's one of those stores with shit piled up high so you can't see over one aisle to the next.

There's crap in my aisle all over the floor and I practically skate on the stuff as I get to the back.

But I get there before Harding.

One man down. Looked to be a civilian.

Booth stands over the casualty. Hispanic male. Matches Rodriguez. Gun drawn and trained on the man down. Standard procedure.

Booth's calling, "Are we all clear?"

I could see the casualty was shot in the shoulder. Debris on the floor looked like someone had shot up the ceiling. There was a cloud of plaster in the air still. We were that fast.

But here's the thing, the thing I still don't get.

Harding arrives and shoots. I'm deaf he's so close. Bam.

No warning. No nothing. Just shoots.

The first one knocks Agent Booth on his ass. Booth drops the gun because the shot goes through his shoulder past the Kevlar. Bam! He's down.

But he's still got his senses. Calls out, "Federal agent. FBI." Orders Harding to holster his weapon.

You almost can't hear it because Harding is pumping another shot into him.

Shot that close, even with the Kevlar, it can break a rib or two. Especially when the guy's on the ground like Booth. Depending on the round, the ammo used, it can penetrate the vest.

Third shot might have gone through his head.

That's the training. Take 'em down. Heart or head. And Harding is following the training. Takes out the threat. Bam. Neutralizes. Bam. Third shot should be the kill shot if the threat remains.

I've seen it done before. Frank Milner took down a bear of a guy who'd barricaded himself in his home after he'd terrorized the neighborhood using anything that moved as target practice. Thought he was some damned Rambo with his Kevlar and semi-automatics. Milner shot the guy in the leg. When the imbecile keeps coming at us, Milner shoots him in the Kevlar.

Doesn't stop him.

Guy's a bull elephant hopped up on the local chemistry set and Milner finally nails him right between the eyes.

Big fat hero.

Harding doesn't know better. Everything is happening in the blink of an eye. Bam. Bam. Bam. Probably thought Booth was the perp. Pops him because he's got a weapon drawn and he's standing over a bleeder and there's dust everywhere from the ceiling falling on our heads and there's shit all over the place and Harding's about ready to put a bullet into the agent's head and I just react.

And body slam my wingman.

oOo

It's well after 8 a.m. when they finally release me. I've made my statement twelve times in almost as many hours and I should head home to bed, but I can't.

I can't.

I called Katie and told her what happened. She's got an early class so I tell her I'll see her later. I asked her to kiss the kids and leave me a note if she wants me to go to the store for anything. I tell her I love her.

I make sure she knows that every day. Especially a day like today.

Booth had called in the incident at Slurpie City. He was tailing a con man, Orlando Rodriguez. It was Booth who notified us, federal agent calling in the locals. Told the supervisor he didn't care who brought Rodriguez in, he just wanted the guy off the streets. No history of violence with Rodriguez. Carried a gun but no one knew if the guy could shoot.

The only thing he hit last night was the ceiling, so I guess we got our answer.

Orlando Rodriguez was a con man who defrauded people seven ways to Sunday. Not known as a violent sort, but you never know. Sometimes people snap. A Fed wanted to let us handle his capture, share the credit.

And we almost killed him for his trouble.

Yeah, I couldn't sleep.

Harding's a bit of a prick, but he's a good cop usually. Solid generally. Made a mistake. Stupid ass, rookie mistake. It'll get him a suspension, a hearing before the disciplinary board. It'll be up to them what happens next.

If it were up to me, I know what I would do.

But it's not. All I can do is be there when Booth wakes. I can let him know how sorry I am that someone from my station house mistook him for the perp.

Words aren't going to be enough, but they're something.

St. Joe's has a great ER and I've brought them enough business over the years to recognize a few faces. Mavis, the dayshift admit nurse, looks up the information for me. St. Joe's is one of those old-time hospitals where someone thought it a good idea to color code the floors and lay down lines in the linoleum to direct you to where you need to be. Follow green to patient's rooms. Blue to ICU. Green to outpatient.

I walk the line, the yellow line, to his room. He's in bad shape but not bad enough to be in the blue zone, not good enough to be in the green zone. Yellow for caution.

I make my way down the halls. It doesn't matter that I'm early for visiting hours; a uniform's as good as a free pass.

And I'm using that free pass.

A cop runs on instincts. It keeps him alive. Keeps his partner alive.

And I've got an instinct.

I go through everything again and again.

It just shouldn't have gone down that way.

Perps, they can go nuts on you. That's expected. They're high because someone believes there's better living through chemistry. They're cornered and they know it and they panic. They think they can crazy their way out of it.

Some want to eat a bullet.

But facts are facts and I know what I saw.

And it just don't set right with me.

The man deserves an apology. Mere words, I know. But I know what I know.

And I know what I don't know.

The patient room that Agent Booth has been taken to is in the old section of the hospital. The yellow line drops off at the waiting room. A muted TV reminds the occupants that there is another world outside the hospital. A talking head is recapping last night's stories. A robbery. A big accident on the highway. The convenience store shooting.

I almost wished the sound were up so I could hear if they got it right.

An older man's laid out on the couch, a hospital blanket covering him. He's lights out.

The table's littered with coffee cups and there's a lady dressed in a nice suit, dark blue and grey, coming in from the other hallway carrying one of the hospital trays bringing in more coffee.

She eyes me.

Instinct kicks in. She's a former cop.

But the way she looks, she could be a model.

"Are you here for FBI Agent Seeley Booth?"

The woman's figured out where the break room is and where the good coffee is kept and she sets down her tray and just that bit of sound, or maybe my question, wakes the old guy who practically shoots to his feet.

Instincts tell me this is the guy who's used to keeping away from cops.

"Dr. Camille Saroyan," the woman says.

"Max Brennan."

I shake the man's hand and his grip is iron and his eyes read me.

I'm right. He might stay away from cops but it sure as hell isn't because he's intimidated by them.

"Officer Peter O'Connell," I tell them. "I wanted to talk to the agent."

"More questions?"

Brennan hasn't stopped reading me since he woke up.

I eye the coffee cups on the tray. Five. If there's a whole gang of them like him I'm in trouble.

"I was at the scene when Agent Booth was shot."

I was the one who practically had to pry the gun from Harding's hands and the one who called in the shooting and the one who can't sleep because something is gnawing away at my gut.

"I just want to see him for a few minutes. See how he's doing."

Dr. Saroyan does something with her lips and nods and Brennan just eyes me.

He's dressed in a grey suit coat, blue shirt, no tie, dark slacks.

There's five coffees and two people and Mrs. Lindauer is rewarded again for drilling math into my puny brain during 4th grade because two more people are walking from the direction of the room.

He's unshaven and dressed in navy blue slacks, pinstriped shirt, white with blue stripes, tie undone. She's dressed in a nice multi-colored dress that flares out at the waist. Nice Asian face. Another model wannabe.

I get two more names, Dr. Jack Hodgins and Angela Montenegro. No one looks alike and no two people share the same last name but I get the impression that this is Booth's family.

"He got shot by one of your buddies." I can hear the accusation in Dr. Hodgins' tone.

"Jack."

Miss Montenegro lays her hand on his arm and the tone and the touch tell me those two are connected.

"They're supposed to shoot the bad guys, Ange." He's pissed. "Not Booth."

I can hear his frustration. I feel it myself.

"I was there," I start. No words are going to repair this wound. "I was the officer in charge."

"He's the one who saved Booth's life, Dr. Hodgins."

I don't see it that way, but the tension lessens with Dr. Saroyan's words.

"It's just that we all work together," Miss Montenegro's saying. "We're all pretty close."

If I'm getting this kind of reception out here, I can only wonder what is waiting for me down the hall. Mostly the family is the worst part of the hurdle into the room. They're the ones who don't understand. They're the ones who got the call in the middle of the night and the uncertainty kicks in and it makes them want to strike out at someone. Something.

I'm that someone.

"I've been with the force for 10 years," I say. "I've been where you are. Sometimes things happen in the heat of the moment. Mistakes."

It sounds lame. Like one of those bad cop shows.

They never get it right.

I'm a cop in the City of Brotherly Love and I love my brothers like I love Katie and Maggie and Molly.

But I'm feeling something other than love right now.

"He's got a son." Dr. Hodgins isn't going to let me off the hook. "He's 11 years old."

"I've got two myself." I can feel the pain in the room. "Girls. One's making her communion Saturday."

"We've got a little one, too." Miss Montenegro is trying to soothe Dr. Hodgins. Smooth over the situation. "He's just a few weeks old."

I understand. You watch them come into the world from the very start and you can't imagine them leaving the world. Or being crushed by it.

And you protect them from the hurts of the world as best you can. But everybody hurts eventually.

"Kids are great." It's another one of those lame things you say when you don't know what else to say.

"We're going to go," Miss Montenegro is pulling at Dr. Hodgins. "C'mon, Jack. Michelle's into triple overtime."

"I'm sorry," I say. This is not where I should be making the apology, but it is. "I'm sorry for what happened. It shouldn't have gone down like that."

Dr. Hodgins seems to back down. The two women soften.

Brennan hasn't changed. He's still on red alert.

"I heard they're going to release him in a day or two."

It's a good day if you can walk away from being shot.

He gets to walk away.

I figure ever day after getting shot is a good day, too.

"The shoulder wound was a through and through," Dr. Saroyan says. "The bullet that hit the vest broke several ribs."

"Lucky he had a vest on."

Dr. Hodgins' tone is duller. But all their faces have gone gray. Thoughtful.

There's nothing to say. We know that close counts in horse shoes, hand grenades, IEDs and this.

"I just wanted to see him," I repeat. I'm asking for permission. It seems the least I can do. "He saved a lot of people by doing what he did."

"Bren's in there with him."

"His wife?"

I get looks I can't quite read. For a moment I wonder if the guy's gay and I've made a mistake.

"Dr. Temperance Brennan." Hodgins is a bulldog. The tone's back. "From the Jeffersonian."

I know the name. I should say, names. Dr. Brennan's the crime novelist. The Jeffersonian's one of the best forensics labs in the country.

She gets it right in her books. The Jeffersonian just gets it right.

"I'd come back later," I pipe up. "But it's important."

To my surprise, it's Brennan who's willing to walk with me down the hall. "I'll bring Tempe some coffee."

I nod goodbye and know that Dr. Hodgins is going to watch us all the way down the hall.

I can't blame him.

Brennan walks slowly. I keep pace. The coffee sloshes around in the cup, but he doesn't spill a drop.

The door's ajar and we pause.

I can see a woman seated on the edge of the bed, a cup in hand. She's bending a straw toward Booth's mouth.

He's not so out of it that he can't hold onto the straw as he sips the water.

Brennan taps at the door with his free hand and both of them turn to us.

The second bed by the door is free, but I can tell that someone's used it recently.

The two women in the waiting room are gorgeous. So's Dr. Brennan.

My Katie's gorgeous, so I know gorgeous when I see it.

Her hair's a bit mussed, but from the look of the bed, I know she's been with him all night. She's got on a green dress that's cut low, but she's wearing a man's grey sports jacket over it. She's barefoot.

She stays put on the bed and eyes me. Curious. Unyielding.

Like her old man.

"Officer Peter O'Connell," I say. "Ma'am. Agent Booth."

"O'Connell?" She rises from the bed and for a moment I'm taken by the intensity of her eyes.

"I wanted to see how you were doing."

I direct my words toward the agent in the bed, but I can't help but catch her in my gaze.

"I brought you some coffee, honey." Believe it or not, I almost forgot about the other Brennan. He makes his way to his daughter and hands her the cup.

"Thank you."

At first I think she's merely thanking her father for the coffee, but she's not. Her eyes are intense and direct and haven't left me for a moment.

"Thank you."

Booth's fingers curl around hers and she sits back down on the bed as she sips the coffee.

I nod because there's little else I can do. I was there. I reacted. The man on the bed is alive because I couldn't bring a gun to bear on a brother. A fellow cop.

"I didn't come here to be thanked," I say. "I probably should say this to you." I look at Booth. He's sitting up and shirtless and his left hand is intertwined with Dr. Brennan's right and I hadn't noticed, but Brennan has made his way to the foot of the bed. "Alone."

It's as lame a thing to say as an apology at this point. I get the feeling with Brennan at the foot of the bed and Dr. Brennan on the side, that neither one of them is going to let anyone or anything else get to the man on the bed.

A herd of wildebeest hasn't got a chance against the two of them.

The three of them look at me and I hesitate.

"Just say it," Booth says. "Just tell us."

I remember him on the floor of that convenience store, bleeding and covered with plaster and shit and looking up at me. His left hand was reaching for his gun.

Harding was on his ass and Mayne had come in and Harding's weapon was where I had kicked it by some cardboard boxes piled up next to the ice freezer.

And I had lowered my weapon and was kneeling by Booth and he was reaching for his gun still. His eyes constantly on me. Going for his gun.

"This is not part of the official investigation," I begin. "I needed to see you."

"What about?"

Dr. Brennan's voice is as direct as her eyes that never seem to blink.

I swallow hard and begin. "Agent Booth," I say, the air suddenly heavy and dry, "can you think of any reason why Officer Matt Harding wanted you dead?"


	31. Stairway to Heaven

_**Stairway to Heaven:**_** Led Zeppelin**

**Author's Note:** _I apologize for the length of time between updates. Real life has a tendency to show up and play havoc with one's amusements at the most inopportune time. I cannot promise speedy updates, but I do have every intention of finishing this piece. Forty songs in forty days didn't come off as I had hoped—I'm much too slow a writer to pull that off, but I will finish off the song list. I do fear, however, that the season will be finished long before I can finish the list. I do thank you for hanging in there with this._

Watching a woman dress offered a banquet of visual delights and insights into the woman. The selection of clothes, the care with which she took with her hair and her makeup, the care with wrapping the package of earthly delights.

And watching a woman such as Temperance Brennan was to know the joy of Christmas daily, both in the anticipation that came with watching the package being wrapped as well as the joy of the unveiling that came each time he had the privilege of unwrapping her like a present.

But as he watched her from his position on the bed, that joy was somewhat dulled by the knowledge that she was dressing for another man.

Two other men actually.

"Street knows you need to be back at the Jeffersonian tonight, right?"

She turned from the mirror, where she was applying mascara to her right eyelashes and gave him a look that, well, must have been similar to the one she gave her parents the first time they allowed her to walk off to school by herself.

"I told Cam to call me the moment you're there."

All of his other comments that morning had skirted the edge of being too worried, too concerned, too, too something, but he knew now that he had trespassed into territory he should not have stepped into at all.

She turned toward him with a preciseness that in other circumstances might have brought that little twinge he'd defined weeks ago as anticipatory delight, but this morning, as so many of their mornings of late, offered a potpourri of other emotions less easily acknowledged much less defined.

"Why?"

He sat up allowing the sheet to pool around his waist. Her scent—their combined scents—still clung to the sheets and enveloped him in the headiness of their lovemaking.

"Hello," he said using his hands to indicate the bed. "I'm allowed to worry. More than just partners worry."

"I'll be fine, Booth," she said, stepping toward him and standing next to him.

He knew if she came any closer and if he had been 100% he might just pull her back into bed and forget the rest of the world and the conundrum they now seemed to be in.

He rotated his shoulder, the one that had been pierced by a bullet just four days ago and felt that old familiar twinge of tender tissue. His ribs still felt as if someone had placed a 50 lb. weight on them each time he breathed. It was an improvement—he'd started out with a 500 lb. weight.

"Could you hand me my pills?"

For almost three days she had stayed with him and nursed him and only now was she returning to the bank and to the Jeffersonian. With her alter ego clearly under the influence of an abusive boyfriend and Cam now fully aware of the double life she was leading, Bones was going back to burn the candle at both ends. Again.

And his guilt—a feeling he could define and one he hated—kept coming in waves.

As if she understood his tortured thinking, she settled onto the bed next to him and handed him the water and his pain pills.

She was dressed in her banker-calm clothes—pale blue blouse against a navy jacket and a skirt with enough pleats that seemed more of an invitation for fun as it swooshed as she walked. He wondered how the colors would play against her blue eyes, but she'd already put in the green contacts that gave her a slightly exotic look, especially against her fair skin and the browns of her hair. The black wig would be waiting for her in the agent's car. The undercover agent, Eric Street, who was playing her abusive boyfriend, would help her apply the makeup to make it look like he'd hit her again, completing the story as to why she'd been out most of the week. He'd also give her any instructions from the agent now in charge of the case. Booth had not only been injured but effectively barred from intruding in any way on her end of the operation.

She was coming at the case from her angle and he was coming at it from his and never the twain could meet. Layla Knowles must never be seen with Joey Booth—so Temperance Brennan and Seeley Booth would also be estranged in the outside world, partners no more.

"I will be fine, Booth," she said, her eyes softening. "I'm only supposed to observe Bowman's movements and try to find out if he's the one creating the gift cards and how he's doing it." Her eyes never left his. "That's all."

He studied the pills in is palm and wondered, not for the first time, what game fate was playing with him. He'd been trying to build his own stairway to heaven, solving murders and atoning for his past as a sniper, and he'd finally had a love that, while unconventional in oh, so many ways, was really, truly his and he was dangling the object of that love out on the thinnest of threads hoping she could catch a thief.

Somehow that seemed several zip codes out of her job description and of what they had originally set out to do.

"What?" she asked. Even green, her eyes held his with a steady intensity he recognized as her own.

"You don't have to do this."

They had had this discussion before. At the hospital. On the ride to her apartment. In Caroline's office. With Cam. And the answer had always been the same.

"I can do this, Booth."

And even behind the green contacts, he could see the fierce determination of one Temperance Brennan.

oOo

"_You do know that if you are wrong, cherie," Caroline Julian said, "this is career suicide?"_

"_I'm dead certain." Booth's eyes did not leave Caroline's. His injured shoulder and broken ribs screamed in agony, but he was trying very hard not to show it. He was afraid that he could not protect any of them, but he refused to appear weak in front of them or Caroline._

_Only when they were in bed together that night would he allow Bones to know just how taxing this act of invincibility was. _

_But she knew his pain went deeper than violated muscles and cartilage and bones. _

"_Wrong thing to say, cherie." Caroline shook her head and picked up a wine glass. "Dead certain? Considering that cop wanted to drill you full of more holes than a chunk of baby Swiss."_

_He had insisted that they tell Caroline Julian, insisted they do it as quickly as possible. Brennan had suggested they do it over dinner at her apartment on the first night home from the hospital. A social call with Angela and Jack and her father. He did not want to hide the truth of what they are facing from her or from them. Not like Paxton. No. He'd already convinced Hodgins to take Angela and the baby back to his family estate where the entomologist had security. _

_He did not want to risk their lives._

_He did not try to convince Max of anything. Max had been providing his own brand of security all along and Booth trusted that he would do everything in his power to protect his daughter._

"_There are no coincidences in a murder investigation," Brennan said. She'd allowed Booth to set out most of their evidence, interrupting him only once to clarify a point he was trying to make. "Apparently there are no coincidences in a fraud investigation as well."_

"_You understand that running an undercover operation without authorization is grounds to get you fired?" He appreciated Caroline's directness, but he didn't care. His gut was screaming and he felt justified for doing things as he laid them out. "With a bunch of lab rats to boot? And Max Brennan?"_

"_The FBI and other government agencies use ex-cons all the time," Hodgins offered. "Look at Frank Abagnale. He's practically on the payroll."_

"_He is," Caroline conceded. Her face told the tale—she hated when one of the geniuses were right, especially when she was trying to persuade them to do something else. Booth could tell she wasn't nearly as upset by the undercover work they'd already done as she was by the idea of a crooked FBI agent. "He's a consultant in fraud cases. But we're still discussing your independent investigation here."_

_Hodgins sat back in his chair and grinned. _

_Later he will explain who Abagnale is to Bones, how he pretended to be an airline pilot and a doctor and passed more than $2.5 million in bad checks beginning at the tender age of 19, but right now Booth simply wanted to put an end to this case. He wanted to rout the bad federal agents. He wanted time to heal. He wanted time with Brennan. _

_He wanted everyone to go back to their old lives. _

_He suspected Max already had a plan in place if Caroline refused to help. And he knew he did not want Bones to have to choose between his plan and her father's. _

"_All right, I'll help." Caroline sighed. "Good thing I can type."_

"_But you're still going to have to run this through the FBI like it was someone in the organization's idea to go rousting one of their own." Caroline had cast her eyes toward Max and they all took her lead and looked at Bones' father. "This is no place for someone deciding to become the Lone Ranger and take on the forces of evil."_

"_Why can't Booth run this?" He could practically see the gears running in Hodgin's head. _

"_No, cherie, I mean you need to get someone in the bureau to oversee it." _

"_Who?" Booth asked._

"_Why?" Bones asked._

_Caroline turned to Bones' question first. "Because you're going to need court orders for things such as wire taps and looking into financial records and whatnot. And judges like to do that for the FBI not some FBI agent running his own investigation like it was a Saturday morning cartoon show or some federal prosecutor who thinks he's cute."_

"_Besides," she said, her voice taking on a softer tone, "Booth here is not 100%."_

"_So, who can we take this to in the bureau?" Booth asked. He had his own short list—very short—and he was hoping Caroline wanted the same man._

"_Silverman. Jon Silverman."_

_Booth felt the tension in his body ease. At least he and Caroline were on the same wavelength._

"_Why?"_

_Caroline's expression screamed impatience with Brennan's question, but her tone was still gentle. "You like Silverman, Dr. Brennan?"_

"_Why should that matter?"_

"_Why do we have to go to another agent?" Angela chimed in. _

_Caroline huffed. "Booth can't be in two places at the same time. Booth suspects an FBI agent, one of his superiors, of committing a crime because he was one of the few people in on both the Rodriguez bust and that little gift card scheme. He's going to squeeze from his end while the good doctor her plays bank teller at her end."_

_Most of the eyes went to Brennan. Booth studied his partner. Her willingness to proceed with Silverman in charge was critical if this was going to work._

"_The Department of Justice likes things nice and neat," Caroline said._

"_You like things nice and neat," Brennan countered._

"_Hacker signed off on my transfer to fraud," said Booth quickly._

"_Because Federal Prosecutor Franzcwa was pushing for it. Fletcher would have been content to leave you to the Jeffersonian investigating murders and such, except the assistant district attorney wanted some significant movement on the case." Caroline leveled her gaze with Booth's and he understood her meaning. "So did Hacker. It's been on hold for almost 2 years now."_

"_Silverman," Booth said. "What do you think, Bones?"_

_The decision was hers, he decided. Ultimately, it was her life on the line and she would have to trust the agent in charge. _

"_Another thing to consider," Caroline continued before Bones could weigh in, "is why Dr. Brennan's not in witness protection somewhere in upstate Maine rather than here in Maryland eating fancy food and drinking fancy wine." _

"_Witness protection?" Hodgins practically jumped on the idea. Booth knew just how close they had come to having the best forensic anthropologist in the country if not the world stuck inside a hotel room in the wilds of Maine rather than making roast turkey and serving wine in the comfort of her own home._

"_Most people who go up against a crime syndicate like that Chinese Kung Pao Chicken group you were kidnapped by would be hidden away somewhere rather than taking a second job while working their day job at night." _

"_They weren't the Kung Pao. . . ," Brennan tried to correct the prosecutor, but Caroline ignored her._

"_Silverman has been turning the Chinese like homemade pancakes," she continued. "At one time you were the principle witness against them. Right now," she slowed her delivery, "he's got them stacked up against each other. Your testimony is simply a pat of butter on the plate."_

"_Silverman understands you are an invaluable asset to the FBI and to the Jeffersonian and he moved heaven and earth to make sure that you were protected in this case."_

"_Then we go with Silverman." Bones' glance told him as much._

"_What happens if this Silverman lets it slip that we're investigating Mark Fletcher?" Angela's question seemed to rankle Caroline, but he was grateful the artist had brought it up. _

"_He will, cherie. He's going to help us know who the players are in the game."_

"_But this literally isn't a game," Brennan chimed in. _

_He studied her for a moment, the blue of her eyes appeared grey in the lighting of her dining area. _

"_But we have to think of it like a game of dominoes," he said, his eyes never leaving hers. "And we have to be one move ahead of them at all times."_

oOo

He really didn't think Bones would appreciate it, but sometimes he felt they were living on a kiss and a prayer lately.

Each kiss he gave her—and they were disappointingly few and far between in the two weeks since she'd been on the case—were accompanied by a silent prayer that she would be safe.

And she was. After a fashion.

The FBI had authorized an apartment for Layla Knowles and her boyfriend, Eric Street, so Brennan was now living there. The police had been called to the apartment several times in the last two weeks because of the loud voices coming from the place.

Eric and Layla could put on quite a show.

In each instance, Layla had sought out some help from her boss, Willy Bowman, or one of her co-workers. And in each instance, it seemed to draw the Bowman in closer.

"He comes from an abusive background, Agent Booth," Sweets had told him, "and he's got the same White Knight syndrome you've got, a desire to rescue. . . ."

"Sweets, Sweets," he had stopped him, "all I need to know is what I can do to trigger this guy."

"That's easy," Sweets had said, "just think of the things that trigger your reactions."

It had been simple enough to persuade Bones to dress up and try to draw the bank manager closer. It had been simple until he'd been shot and the case turned uncertain.

He was sure his shooting had not been a random act of violence, but something more deliberate, more sinister.

"No word yet on your cop," Mark Fletcher announced as he appeared in Booth's office doorway. After two weeks on medical leave, Booth was itching to get officially back to work and put some time in at the pistol range using his left hand. His right shoulder was still healing.

He wasn't going to chance his life or Bones'.

"Philadelphia Officer Matt Harding," Fletcher said, "Is still MIA. We did pick up a sighting in Portland, Oregon. Apparently he's got a cousin there."

Booth felt his gut screaming a warning. Rodriguez had been set up with drugs laced with a hallucinogenic additive. Harding and Mayne had been the only two cops in the area, the only two cops expected to respond. A simple errand had saved his life.

"Harding made a $125,000 mistake." Fletcher opened a folder and presented it to Booth.

Bank records. A sudden large influx of money followed by a large withdrawal. Then disappearance. "We're looking into the cases you've worked for connections between you and Harding or anyone looking to stop you."

Fletcher paused. "It's a long list, Booth. You're good at your job."

"Any connections to the gift cards?"

It was Fletcher's last chance, a last opportunity for the man to take him out of contention as Booth enemy No. 1.

Fletcher shook his head. "Nothing. For two years we've seen nothing but bad plastic and good leads dry up. I think that one's a dead end, but we are looking."

Booth's gut continued to scream.

"And you," Fletcher said as he began to turn to leave, "you're still my point man on Tracy Lord and this gift card scam, but that's only because we've got no one else she'll deal with. But you banged up is better than some healthy and whole." Fletcher paused. "We've got people looking for Harding. There's almost no chance he's connected to Tracy Lord."

oOo

Once when he was on a training field in Germany training, he stumbled upon a muddy area that offered a shortcut. But it came at a price. The muddy earth closed up around his feet and sucked at his boots and practically tore them off his feet for each step he took. The shortcut had turned into a two-hour-long assault on his legs that had left him exhausted and leg weary.

He was wondering if the undercover assignments were the same kind of trek.

Part of him wanted to drag Bowman in and intimidate the man into cracking and giving them everything they needed to pull down the whole operation. Part of him wanted to bring in Tracy Lord and erase every tattoo off her body until she came clean on who was running the show.

But he wondered, too, if he'd simply replace one mud hole for another.

It wasn't that the case was going slowly or even that Bones was caught between two extremes—playing bank teller by day and forensic anthropologist whenever she could. It wasn't that she was spending an inordinate amount of time with two other men.

He trusted her.

He just couldn't trust that one man would keep her safe.

He had no illusions about Bowman. On shreds of evidence and some skullduggery from Max Keenan, he had every reason to believe the man was connected to the gift cards. When push came to shove the man would save his own neck and Bones would not be safe.

He had no illusions about Eric Street, either. The man was a professional, a man whose sole job was to make sure that Bones was safe within her false identity. From all reports, Street was a good agent, a talented undercover guy.

But he couldn't be everywhere.

Neither could Max, but Booth was grateful that the old con man had refused to give up on the case when Street was brought in. He remained in the shadows, but he remained.

And all should be well, but Booth remained cautious.

And worried.

The FBI had a poor track record of keeping Brennan safe. Kemp had tried to kill her. Perotta hadn't been there when Bones and Sweets had been attacked, and it had been up to the martial arts-trained anthropologist to save herself. Paxton had died trying to save her. The last two agents had been given strict orders by none other than Cam herself to not bring Dr. Brennan into the field upon pain of, well, something akin to death, and they had obeyed.

And what about him?

Yes, she'd been injured, even kidnapped and buried, shot, blown up. . . okay, he hadn't done a perfect job, either. But he'd also put himself in harm's way for her and he had almost died for her.

And he'd do it again.

But he felt distant and helpless as he watched her go off to an undercover assignment without him.

And, if he was being truly honest with himself, he was feeling a tad bit, just a tiny bit, an infinitesimal jot of jealousy.

oOo

Watching her work could be almost as fascinating as watching her dress. While he had had the rare occasion in the last two weeks to watch her donning her clothes hours after he had had the great joy in removing them from her, he did enjoy watching her work on the platform. Today's subject simply smiled toward the skylight, silent as she completed her examination.

On the platform, she was focused and serious and always cataloging. He couldn't help that his mind went to other times when he observed her, other times that involved far fewer clothes, focused and serious and cataloging. Always cataloging.

"Booth?" He hadn't swiped his card to make his entrance, but had been standing at the bottom of the stairs just marveling at how the light seemed to highlight the shades of brown in her hair and how her lab coat seemed to move freely of the body beneath. "Are you here for a reason?"

He tried to cover his reverie with a smile as he swiped his card and took the steps two at a time. "Is there any better reason than I wanted to see you?"

The faintest of smiles crossed her face and had it not been the platform and a handful of squints bordering the area, he might have felt compelled to sweep her into his arms and kiss her soundly.

"A new murder victim?"

"Yes," she pronounced carefully as she usually did. "But his murder occurred more than two hundred years ago."

These bones had the striations along the bones that he came to understand had something to do with the calcium breaking down or ossifying, he wasn't sure which. And he wasn't sure if he even read them correctly. He was just glad that she was working in the lab and not in the bank today.

"Cause of death?"

She pointed toward the ribs, a smile flashing across her face before she began a recitation that included musket balls and shattered ribs and traces of lead along the vertebrae.

"Not the War of 1812?"

He could see the mild confusion crease her brow, but she continued. "No. The remains were discovered in a farmer's field in Georgia. The osteological profile suggests that he was a resident of inland areas."

"He?"

Curiosity got the better of her. "Yes, Booth." She perched a gloved hand on her hip and gave him a look, one part exasperation, one part amusement. "You did not come here to investigate the murder of a Georgian sheepherder."

He shook his head, his own amusement easing the tension that had only increased the longer he'd been away from her. "Sheepherder?"

"Occupational markers." She continued to give him a look. "There's a 76% probability."

"I came to take you to lunch."

This time she could not hide the smile. They stood just gazing at each other, the thought of lunch providing oh, so many possibilities to reconnect when the unwanted happened: his cell phone went off.

His hand went to his pocket, and he inwardly delighted in the thought of what their lunch might entail when a glance at the caller ID stopped those images cold.

"Booth," he said in the voice he reserved for Tracy Lord.

"Hey, big guy," she purred, "I got something sleek and slippery for you,"

"And it always costs me big," he said, gesturing to Bones. Her expression had changed from the one before which was a mixture of joy and anticipation to that clinically neutral look. "Takes me days to recover."

"Well, I'm talking about this evening. One night only. Come and get it or lose it."

Bones had turned back to the bones, but he knew she was listening in.

"Tonight it is. Just tell me when and where."

"Oh, no you don't," Tracy said, her voice gone husky and more inviting if that were possible, "a woman likes to be talked into giving up her virtue to a man such as yourself."

"That's the price? Just your virtue?"

"Price? A woman wants it all. More than just a quickie at lunch."

He blanched and looked at Bones. Her glance toward him remained neutral, but his own emotions had twisted in on themselves.

"So this is going to cost me big?"

"Only if you want it all," she purred. "And I wouldn't give this to just anybody. You're the only man who can handle this. All this."

"All this, or is that just talk?"

"You know I can deliver, big guy. You won't be able to walk the same way for days."

"Then you've got to tell me how much."

"Mmmmm, I want what you brought the last time and a little more. Twenty-five more."

"I know you're worth it," he said, matching her tone.

"Always," she said and the line went dead.

He looked at his cell phone. A text message had come in during the call. Fletcher. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, Bones was looking at him, her pale blue eyes questioning.

He showed her the cell phone and dialed Fletcher.

"Booth here." He listened as his boss talked and with each word he felt his disappointment growing. "I'll be there. Fifteen minutes."

He glanced over at Bones as he ended the call. She was taking off her gloves and slipping them into her pocket. She beckoned him to follow.

They made it into the sanctuary of her office before he pulled her into his arms and into a kiss. And when they broke apart, she began to talk.

"I find that I worry about you more now that we know. . . ."

He kissed her again, not to erase the worry, but to give them a moment just for themselves. A short, achingly sweet moment.

"Booth?" she seemed to want to say something, but she seemed hesitant.

"I know," he said and rested his forehead against hers. "I know."

And he gave in one last time and kissed her. Kissed her to erase the conversation with Tracy Lord. Kissed her to erase everything—false names and elaborate disguises and potential threats. He kissed her to give her hope, to give him hope.

And he sent up a prayer to heaven.

oOo

The bar was little more than a dive, little more than a step above the last place he'd waited for her.

The bag held $125,000. _"There were no coincidences in a fraud investigation," Bones had said, and he believed it. _And the money? The bounty on his head, apparently. Deep down he had hoped he warranted a higher price tag.

But little matter. Jon Silverman had at least one man somewhere in this mess of humanity. Mark Fletcher had someone here, too, as backup.

And they all waited.

And waited.

Booth cleared his throat and tested his right shoulder and felt his bruised ribs react to his breaths and he waited for a woman with a tattoo above her right breast advertising, Heavenly Hills.

But Tracy Lord never showed.


	32. Sympathy for the Devil

_**Sympathy for the Devil: **_**The Rolling Stones**

These days she's really not herself.

Thursday morning of the fifth week opens with the pensioners who come in with Social Security checks and money order requests and a need for small talk.

Temperance Brennan finds it difficult to talk meaningfully about the difficulties they are having with their children or the ways in which their grandchildren differ from how they were as children, but as an anthropologist she gathers in all the information, curious about the intercommunications between generations as exhibited by the geriatric customers of the Plymouth 1st Bank and Trust branch. As Layla Knowles, she smiles in what she hopes is a sympathetic way, nods her head, sometimes makes murmuring noises to indicate agreement with the customer—_it just sounds so much more professional than guest she's been told_—and carefully counts out the money in full view, slowly, and always offers them a paper envelope for the bills.

Temperance Brennan notes how many older people will ask specifically for $5s, $10s and $20s, and how Mr. Gerald Connors asks for a $50 and a $100 because he thinks that President U.S. Grant might enjoy a conversation with Benjamin Franklin.

Layla Knowles smiles and counts out $5s and $10s and $20s for Mr. Connors on Friday afternoon when he says the two "old guys" are done talking about world events and he needs to take the others out for a spin.

Temperance Brennan is uncertain why some of the customers aged 70 or older insist on walking through all kinds of weather to deposit their checks or to withdraw cash. She wonders if their time would not be better spent reading or visiting with the children they are always talking about or knitting the shawl that was started two months ago but there's been little time to finish.

Layla Knowles listens and understands that beyond the exercise, these customers need to exercise something more profound than their limbs. She smiles a lot, nods her head a lot, and remembers to use their names as she greets them and when she says goodbye.

Temperance Brennan is very careful of her cash drawers and her register counts even though she can do the math in her head faster than she can press the numbers on the computer.

Layla Knowles is very careful of her cash drawers and her register counts even though she can do the math in her head faster than she can press the numbers on the computer. But she takes each deposit or withdrawal seriously, presses in the numbers so that her drawer count is accurate and the calculator will tally everything correctly. And she diligently fills out the proper forms for her credits and debits and files them in the correct pile so that at the end of the day she can fill out her account sheets quickly and efficiently.

Temperance Brennan can tell anyone who were to ask exactly how many transactions she has made in any given day, how much money she has taken in and how much she has dispensed and how many checks and the total amount she has cashed for the day. Her best day was one Friday in which she took in $124,567.53 in checks, mostly payroll, and distributed exactly $9,253.11 in cash. The odd number is because many people simply deducted the odd amount from their check and did not, as some people do, take out a round figure. On that day she made 104 transactions involving payroll checks alone.

Temperance Brennan does not fully understand exactly why some of the customers come in and ask for their change in "small, unmarked bills" and chuckle slyly. One customer even winked at her and smiled at the security cameras that are scattered throughout the bank lobby.

Layla Knowles winks back and hunches down and counts out the money with a whispery voice. Temperance Brennan doesn't quite understand, but Layla Knowles usually gets a smile and a chuckle from the customers.

Layla Knowles has become a regular fixture at the third teller station at the Plymouth 1st. Many of her customers greet her by name.

Dr. Temperance Brennan has never once had a customer greet her by name for which she is eternally grateful.

Despite all that she is learning, Layla Knowles wishes that some days she could just be Temperance Brennan again.

oOo

_Eric Street, the FBI agent who has been assigned to this case with her, guns the car at the corner as he's waiting for her outside the diner. _

"_He really shouldn't draw attention to himself like that," Booth is saying. She sips her coffee and tries to concentrate on them. There are too few times when they can be them. And in a few minutes she will be Layla and Booth will be gone and she doesn't care if the transmission falls out of the Pontiac, she just wants to spend some time with Booth._

"_You don't want to do that to such a fine vehicle. . . ."_

_Angela has told her that sometimes couples will talk about one thing when the subject is about something else entirely. She has found that to be true. This morning she was upset about not being able to eat in at her apartment since she hasn't been grocery shopping in weeks and her frustration had almost boiled over into a fight. _

"_Eric thinks that he might want to purchase the car from my brother," she says, her voice strangely calm given the fact that she will become Layla and not see Booth for almost 5 days. "As it is, Russ is appreciative of the usage fees that the FBI is paying him. . . ."_

"_He's renting out his car, Bones." He stands and for a second she is wondering why it is so important to Booth that Eric is providing additional gas to the engine while the vehicle is so obviously idling when she realizes that Booth, too, has been complaining about things that are not really the object of his displeasure. _

_She places a hand on his arm and tries to draw his attention. "Booth," she says, "I really don't care what he does to the car. He can take a sledgehammer to it for all I care."_

_The phrase is Eric's and she believes that she has succeeded in diverting his attention when Booth removes his arm from her grasp._

_It is subtle, this movement. The writer in her searches for the exact word, but before she can unearth it, Booth sits down and reclaims her hand. _

"_I'm sorry," he says. His eyes dart toward the table. They've given themselves permission for a rare night together and the morning had been tense and unwieldy. "Look, I wish I hadn't dragged you into this whole. . . ."_

_Her fingers find his lips and she silences the apology. "I chose to do this, Booth."_

_She knows how his guilt and his sense of responsibility have wound around his conscience. She knows how her own life has been disrupted, how her routines have become distant memories. _

_She feels his breath on her fingers and he takes her hand from his face and kisses his hand with a tenderness that they usually reserve for private moments. But they are at the Royal Diner and their actions are on display in the large window and she knows they have thrown away their cautions because time together is so rare. And short. _

"_You watch sports at odd hours."_

"_I got up to get a drink and I realized the hockey game was going to be re-run on another channel." He caressed her hand. "You got up at the crack of dawn."_

"_I could no longer sleep and did not see the benefit of remaining in bed."_

"_No benefits of being in bed with me, Bones?"_

"_You were sleeping so soundly, I didn't want to wake you."_

_Apart, they have developed insomnia brought on by worry. It has followed them when they are together. Apart, they both have had nightmares about the possibilities. _

_Concern hangs in the air between them. For two people who like control, their world right now is uncontrollable._

_He is the first to see Eric walking toward them. Dressed in his FBI suit Eric is nothing like the torn T-shirt-and-jeans Artie Bannister who torments Layla Knowles so much that she has taken to seeing another man, her boss from the bank._

_She knows immediately from his gaze that their time is only a few seconds now but she continues to hold his hand._

"_Booth. Dr. Brennan." Eric is respectful of their time, but his impatience is showing. It is Wednesday, her day off from the bank, and she has a different schedule to keep that day. Jon Silverman wants an update on the undercover operation. Willy Bowman wants dinner and a movie. _

"_Eric."_

_Booth's voice takes on that edge of annoyance that he would use for Sully and Brennan begins to understand some of the undercurrent of emotions that has accompanied them all morning. _

_She knows that Eric has given them more than time and space even though she cannot rationally categorize his contribution to their moments together. "I should go."_

"_Give us a minute."_

_That edge is meant to cut Eric, to make him retreat, and her handler shrugs and retreats without a word. _

_If she could stay here with Booth where she feels loved and safe she would, but her life cannot be lived entirely in the diner. It is as irrational as the moments when, as a foster child, she thought she saw her mother or her father in the faces of strangers. _

_They rise together and embrace and she wants only to stay in his warmth, in his arms. _

_But too quickly, both are gone and so is Booth._

oOo

Layla describes her relationship with Artie as something akin to a nuclear explosion to one of her co-workers. It is a line that Dr. Sweets believes might draw Willy Bowman in closer.

Temperance is not sure how much closer the man can be without crossing a line into sex. She recognizes the sexual interest and has refrained from verbally ruling it out with Bowman although it is not a line she wants to cross. Layla needs to keep Willy interested.

Temperance has also noted the sexual interest from Eric Street. Perhaps at a different time she might be interested for he certainly is an attractive man, but she has no sexual interest in him. She has not refrained from verbally ruling out sex with him.

Silverman has warned her that some undercover operations take weeks or months to come to fruition. But he is aware of her importance to the Jeffersonian, her importance to various government agencies as an expert. He gave her up to Homeland Security for almost two days—two days she could have had with Booth had it not been for a covert operation in Yemen.

Sweets has become a friend at these meetings. The third S, he has said. But she does not understand why he would point out the obvious, the alliterative nature of their three names: Silverman and Street and Sweets.

Beyond this annoyance and the probing of her emotional state, she is grateful for Sweets' presence.

Even if it is not entirely rational.

oOo

"_From the profile and what you've been telling me, I would think you've gained his trust to the point where he might be willing to let you into the third or fourth levels of his operation."_

_The reliance on psychological guesswork frustrates her, but she just as irrationally wants there to be some truth to his words. _

_Silverman weighs Sweets' words. She has grown to respect Silverman for how he is handling this case. He has informed her of the details she needs and even some she does not, but the transparency is welcome. _

"_Are you comfortable with going on another date with Bowman?"_

"_Yes."_

_It is not eagerness in her reply. Bowman is pleasant enough company and Sweets has warned her "not to have sympathy for the devil", but she has a selfish reason for acquiescing so quickly—she will spend more time with Angela in preparing for the date._

_Silverman nods and asks Eric to make sure a surveillance team will also go out with her._

_For a person who appreciates and even requires a certain amount of privacy, it seems that she has lost that in playing Layla. _

"_Level three is what," Eric asks, "I've been making these fake gift cards and selling them on eBay and, hey, would you like to join me?"_

_Eric is a man of conjecture and hyperbole and sarcasm. _

_Sweets has already explained the levels and while she doesn't necessarily believe the young psychologist's theories are valid, she understands the need to quantify human actions._

"_No," Sweets says. He covers his theory for Eric, even pausing to answer a question from Silverman._

_She has become Bowman's confidante, but he has not mentioned the gift cards, only that he has been earning a second income through investments. Silverman's background information on the man suggests he has no such investments. Bowman has mentioned a desire to leave the state, maybe see the world and he has hinted he would like some company. _

_He has left her to work in the office and she has come in on her days off to learn more about banking from Bowman. She knows it is merely the man's version of foreplay._

_She misses Booth in these meetings. She doesn't doubt the direction of the meetings would remain the same if he were here, but she does miss his presence. _

"_Dr. Brennan?"_

_Silverman has caught her when her mind was wandering and she tries to recall anything that will help find the thread of conversation she has dropped._

"_I'm sorry. . . ."_

"_I was just saying that I think you're doing very well. Eric's reports have been good and we think we have a handle on where Tracy Lord's got to."_

"_And Harding?"_

_Silverman shakes his head. "Nothing yet." She appreciates that Silverman does not give her false assurances. "He can probably lay low for some time with the money from the shooting."_

_She wants to point out that they do not know conclusively that Harding is involved, but she says nothing. While she wants the man brought in and questioned, she has only Booth's instincts and a large check as evidence. But she has been living in that nebulous zone of possibilities for some time now and she has come to accept there are some things she can trust even if there is little or no evidence. _

"_Push Bowman tonight on what his investments are all about. You want out of your relationship with Artie, here, and the only way you can see your way clear is to have some money. If you go in there distressed, maybe having had a fight with Artie, he might be more apt to open up."_

_She nods. Eric has worked with her on when to use emotions and when to hold something back with Bowman. She can push. _

_Silverman holds Eric back while she leaves with Sweets in tow. _

"_Dr. Brennan," Sweets begins, "I just want to tell you that I am very impressed with how you're handling this operation. This cannot be easy for you and I know it is a strain on your relationship with Agent Booth."_

_Her response is stoic. "It needs to be done, Sweets."_

"_Yes, but usually this is a task for a trained agent, not a consultant for the FBI."_

_She's heard this before. "Thank you."_

"_Look, Dr. Brennan, I think you and Agent Booth will need to talk about how this has impacted your relationship."_

_They both know how this has impacted their relationship. Like prison they get conjugal visits irregularly except when Homeland Security sweeps in and robs her of that as well. She is learning more about what it is like not to work with Booth and how it is to work with other FBI agents and she feels like a foster child again—uncertain and awkward and distrustful. _

"_Maybe you just need to talk about how this has impacted you."_

"_Thank you," she repeats. "I'm fine."_

_He nods and retreats and they ride the elevator in silence to his floor. "I miss working with you on murder cases, Dr. Brennan," he says as a form of goodbye._

_And the doors close and she is finally alone with Temperance and Layla. _

oOo

It is not a nuclear explosion she waits for, but the inevitable invitation to lunch from Bowman, to be followed by a reminder about dinner that night. Layla has just surprised Mr. Ziffell with a knock knock joke to rival those he usually tells her each Friday morning when he brings in his pension check to be cashed.

"Knock, knock," she asks.

"Who's there?" he answers, clearly pleased she is playing his game.

"Barry."

"Barry who?"

"Barry the treasure where no one will find it."

Temperance is pleased that Mr. Ziffell is laughing and she refrains from explaining why the joke is funny. Even Parker, who has given her the joke, has told her it would be a bad joke if you had to explain it.

Layla smiles warmly and hands Mr. Ziffell his white envelope that holds the $125 he will use that week to pay his bills and buy his food and medications and maybe play a bit of pinochle with the other old men at the senior day care center.

It is a good week for Mr. Ziffell if he does not have to return to the bank to take money out of his savings.

But sometimes he just comes by to tell her a joke.

At 1:15 p.m. each day since that night they had dinner together, the night Booth was shot, Bowman comes by her teller station and touches her on the elbow and asks her if she wants to take her lunch. She willingly takes the later lunch because she is the newest employee and only works 3 days.

And it allows her to eat lunch with the branch manager.

On warm, sunny days, she follows him to the little park just a block or so from the bank. Usually there is a mother or two with a stroller or a small child on a small tricycle circling the park. They take up residence at the bench under a large maple tree and unpack their lunches.

In the distance, she knows that Silverman has an agent in place watching. Some days she wonders if one of the women who comes to the park to read is in reality an agent sent to watch over her.

She also knows that her father is still guarding her from afar on those days when Booth cannot.

When the weather is bad, they eat in his office on the second floor, his door open.

But no one disturbs them.

This Friday she is feeling more confident in her role as Layla. The other tellers have accepted her and one of them whispers to her as she was taking her morning break that "Mr. Bowman would be a good catch."

Layla Knowles nods and smiles shyly and tells her that she already has a boyfriend.

"There is a difference between a monster and someone like Bowman," the woman tells her. "He might bore you, but he won't hit you."

All the other tellers have seen her black eye and the newest bruise she has sported on her left cheekbone this week.

Angela is especially proud of its realism.

At 5:05 p.m. each night, Eric Street, the FBI agent who is posing as her boyfriend, Arthur Bannister, pulls up in front of the bank and waits for her to exit. The Pontiac Trans Am her brother Russ has restored continues to be pressed into service.

Some nights she pulls off the wig and takes out the contacts and rather than go back to the apartment Layla shares with Artie, she becomes Dr. Temperance Brennan again.

Some nights Dr. Brennan does not get home at all.

But tonight is different. She will climb into the Trans Am with Eric who is playing Artie and transform from Layla to Temperance and back again to Layla so that she can date a man and entice him to divulge some more of his secrets.

It is a paradoxical loop—secrets are being used to extract secrets and expose them to the light where they must surely shrivel and die.

oOo

"Sweetie?" Angela has just finished reproducing the dolphin on her breast, but Brennan continues to hold the cloth away from the flesh so her friend can complete the image. "Sweetie, I'm done."

Brennan nods absently and releases the fabric which falls into place to cover half of the aquatic mammal.

"You're pretty quiet, Bren. Did you and Booth have a fight?"

It is the wrong question.

"How is it that I can act like Layla? How can I be a woman who takes abuse from a man and keeps going back to him? I don't understand."

"It's not you, Brennan." Angela takes a seat next to her on the couch and puts her hand on her arm. "But it's probably in all of us to take some form of abuse if we're afraid of being alone."

"I'm tired. . . , " she starts but cannot finish because she is so unsure of what she wants to say. She is tired of psychology.

Angela says nothing. Too often people are trying to give her words to say or to think and she is grateful for her friend's quiet presence.

She looks idly at the dolphin in the mirror. The dolphin is like the one before and the one before that. But it is not like the ones that Angela drew to surprise Booth. Those were his alone.

"You are missed, Sweetie." Angela draws them closer and Brennan wants to rest her head on her friend's shoulder, but she does not. "You're good at this, you know. You know better than anyone what it's like to have to stay someplace where you're not really comfortable or safe because it's the only choice you have at the time."

"It's the wrong choice."

"But what else can you do?"

Angela threads her arm through hers and hugs it. "You become a kick ass forensic anthropologist who solves crimes and writes books and karate chops the bad guys if they try to get away. You become. . . Wonder Woman."

"I'm not Wonder Woman, Ange.

Angela draws her closer. "You are to me."

oOo

Temperance Brennan has always appreciated the beauty of math. In it she has been able to quantify and to understand the world around her. Just as Fibonacci's golden mean explains beauty, numbers express a sense of pure logic upon which one can base facts.

Layla Knowles understands that numbers drive her business. That and color-coded slips for checking and savings and money market accounts. Numbers make up the account numbers and credits and debits provide balance.

Temperance Brennan has spent more than 180 hours as Layla Knowles and she fears that she might need to spend as many more hours as her alter ego.

She has long since recognized that numbers are the key to connect everything and everyone in this case: Harding, Lord, Fletcher, Bowman.

But she doesn't know what those numbers are.

Not yet. But, Temperance Brennan is, by nature, a patient woman.

oOo

It begins Tuesday, after lunch, when people begin to slowly filter into the bank. Many of the accounts are the small business owners eager to make a deposit or get change for their cash registers, but more than a few are her regulars, like Mr. Kowalski and Mr. Garibaldi. They've come to chit chat with Layla Knowles, sip the free coffee or eat the cookies that the head teller, Mrs. Francine Wakefield, replenishes regularly.

It begins simply enough. Max Keenan wheels in a cart covered with one-gallon buckets. Almost two dozen of them. His progress is slow and steady, but the cart seems to be overmatched by the contents of the buckets. From her vantage point, she cannot see what they hold, but Mrs. Wakefield meets him near the door and signals for another teller to get Willy Bowman.

Max gives her only a glance, but it is enough.

Bowman enters the lobby and is almost to the cart when it collapses and thousands of pennies rain down onto the linoleum-covered surface, skipping and skittering and shattering the calm of the bank. Several customers dance to avoid the deluge, and several more begin to bend down to pick them up, and Max is beside himself and even Bowman, usually so unshakeable, is awash in a flood of pennies and Mrs. Wakefield is hopping from sea to sea of linoleum to avoid being grounded by the coppery islands.

Brennan estimates that there are more than a quarter million pennies on the floor.

Several children are now running from island to island of pennies trying to scoop up the coins while Max is protesting and apologizing and bemoaning his losses and Bowman and Wakefield are trying to restore some semblance of order when the next wave hits.

Mr. Kowalski, a former Merchant Marine, bends down to assist in the capture of the coins when Mr. Garibaldi slips on some of the coins and crashes into him. The two men tumble onto the floor and several of the account consultants and investment specialists come out of their cubicles to help the men to their feet.

In the middle of the mayhem, a baby is wailing, its distress loud and almost as chaotic as the penny retrieval scene in front of Brennan.

A woman weaves through the crowd and stops near Bowman and juggles her baby and her purse and slips her a mutilated debit card and loudly demands that she get a replacement immediately if not sooner.

"He's teething so I thought, what's the harm, but there are so many germs and such on these things that I realized what the harm really was, but before I could snatch it back from him, zap—my husband decided to pick that time to try out the new vacuum attachment on his lawn mower."

"It wouldn't be such an emergency, but we really need to get some diapers," she holds the baby toward Bowman whose reaction clearly shows just how desperately the diapers are needed.

"Layla, Miss Knowles," Bowman dances unevenly to her window, avoiding bodies and coins and says, "here, take the keys for my office and make Mrs. . . ." he tries to read the card, "Mrs. . . ."

"It's Miss," the woman says as she tries to hold out her hand, but the baby is squirming and Bowman seems torn between directing recovery efforts on the floor of the lobby and ending the newest threat to the quiet of his bank when he seems to shrug, hand Brennan his keys and waves her off.

"And take Miss. . . take her and the baby someplace to change."

Brennan escorts the woman and the baby to the washrooms, then heads back toward Bowman's office with the card.

Making a new card takes only a few minutes of typing in the account information and waiting for the WL-FA1000 to emboss and to encode the card. She uses Bowman's password to access the master list of accounts and begins to download them onto a flash drive. She also locates a file that provides a history of the WL-FA1000's usage. This, too, she adds to the queue of files. Then she uses the keys to open the desk drawers. It is irrational, but she is disappointed. There is no gun that smokes. She makes a careful catalog of what she does see in each drawer as the credit card machine deposits the new card in the silver tray. She slides a gift card from a major store into the WL-FA1000 and codes it for $100 and pulls up Layla Knowles' Plymouth 1st Bank and Trust to fund it. It is the first opportunity she's had to test one of her father's theories and she hopes that Angela has completed her research. She does not hear the door open. "What the hell are you doing?" It is Bowman. 


	33. River Deep Mountain High

_**River Deep - Mountain High**_**, Ike and Tina Turner  
**

"White, female. . . I think," the cop was saying. He sure as hell looked like he wanted to be a mile away from the body, his cool indifference fraying a bit. Rotting corpse smells did that to people. "I attended one of those lectures, how to tell if the remains are female or male and I still have to look for the obvious signs."

The older Maryland cop made a gesture with his hands that told Collins immediately that they did not look beyond the breasts.

"The bigger the better," the younger one added. Then he looked a bit sheepish. "Uh, ease of ID, you know. Female."

FBI Special Agent Ken Collins hardened his eyes and shot a look at the cop. Thinking about breasts like that and dead bodies was just wrong. Period.

"Ever hear of guys with man bras?" The old cop was goading his partner. "Although he doesn't look fat enough for one of those."

Collins took a long look at the body. "Female. Breasts. Got it."

The skin color was white, mostly. Sort of. Decomp made skin color a crapshoot. The clothes suggested female. The extra. . . stuff. . . at the chest suggested breasts. Female. Something about the pelvis he remembered but didn't really remember.

He really didn't pay much attention when he had the "world's-best forensic anthropologist" for checking out the victims.

"And you're throwing this to the FBI because. . . ?"

"It's disgusting?"

The older cop offered the young guy a smirk for his effort.

"We got bones. Most of her face eaten off. Fingers gone." The older guy leveled his look. "Yeah, it's disgusting, but it's beyond our lab and we usually throw these to the FBI because you guys work with the Jeff."

"Jeffersonian." Collins stared down at his notebook. The use of Jeff irked him; it wasn't like the Met or something. "Medico Legal Lab."

"Body dump in a storm drainage tunnel adjacent to government property. Federal government. Your case."

The older cop sure knew how to pass the stiff.

"My medical examiner says that she wore contacts- green he thinks. Tall, 5'8 or 5'10" or something in between. Tattoo.

Collins bent down and tried not to breathe as he did so. Yep. Tattoo. Probably. He straightened up and made a note. Miss Montenegro could do her computer magic on that.

"And no ID?"

"Heard your lab's the best. A fancy 96-97% solve rate."

Collins couldn't tell if the clothes were nice or not—too much rot and crap for him to tell anything. That's why he left it to the lab rats at the Jeffersonian. That Dr. Hodgins would get off on finding his particulates and Dr. Saroyan could do some tests on the fleshy parts and Dr. Brennan could do her thing with the bony bits.

They do their parts, he and his partner did theirs and then someone got arrested.

It worked for him.

"Okay, the FBI will officially take over the investigation."

"Now that wasn't so bad, now was it?" The older cop had spent entirely too much time sipping coffee and chomping down doughnuts; he seemed to be sucking in extra air just to stand there. At least the FBI had physical standards. "Pack it up guys."

What little activity that had begun ceased. "You'll secure the site until the FBI techs arrive," Collins said. "Fifteen minutes ETA." He checked his cell for the text messages from Skinner. He had them at 7 minutes out. Feds trump locals every time.

"Oh," the younger cop had turned back, "I forgot." He pulled an evidence bag from a cardboard box. "When we went over the body looking for an ID, we found this—some sort of plastic gift card from one of those stores."

"Sometimes these have serial numbers, you know, printed on the back by the magnetic strip. Could tell you which store they come from, but this one don't have one." The older cop pointed toward the back. "Something else for you guys to figure out, I guess."

"Yeah," said the young cop, "she can't tell you anything right now," looking toward the body. "But she sure doesn't need to go shopping now, does she?"

oOo

He'd accepted the assignment for one reason— to polish his star at the bureau. If it meant he had to work with the Jeffersonian, then he would. Yeah, they had a reputation for being dogged and thorough and damned near perfect in their solve rate, but they also had a reputation for arrogance. Spell that one Dr. Temperance Brennan.

She could be blunt. No nonsense. Tell it like it is.

But she could put up with the dead stuff. And she got answers.

Between her and Dr. Hodgins, they could muck around with that all they wanted just as long as they gave them answers.

He usually left the science stuff to Kennan.

They had both endured Agent Seeley Booth busting their balls over how they would and would not treat Dr. Brennan. And they were told not to take her out into the field under penalty of a good ass whoopin' from Booth.

Then a few weeks later, Dr. Saroyan issued an edict that the good doctor was not to go out into the field.

Like they didn't get the message the first time.

Or the third. The high command gave them the same warning.

It was enough to make anyone feel a bit resentful. He had 20/20 hearing.

From where he stood, the woman didn't need to be treated like she was the lone cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. He read her file, he knew her cases: the woman had outlasted two Chinese thugs and countless other creepazoids bent on harming her. Hell, she beat Heather Taffet, the Gravedigger.

So what if it took twice as long to solve a case as had Booth leading the charge with Brennan at his side? It wasn't as if the murders were piling up or something; they pulled two or three of these a month if they were unlucky.

Collins watched the buzz of technicians combing the area. Cold and dank and dark wasn't his idea of a good time. Nor was waiting for the Royal Highnesses, Dr. Brennan and Dr. Saroyan. Brennan could command a crime scene like the queen mother herself, but he figured that was good. She caught things that sometimes the techs didn't; the Rawson case hinged on finding that metal shard, didn't it? Brennan had stopped a tech from stepping on it and burying it further into the sodden ground. Brought in metal detectors, too, to discover that the weapon had been shattered at the crime scene by a hopeful— and later, embarrassed—murderer who thought no one would put the pieces together.

But Brennan and her people had.

Yeah, his star was shinier with every case. Kennan's, too. That clever bit she did with the isotope analysis of the bones on that kidnap/torture case, man, that was sweet. Then put in Dr. Sweets' suggestion on how to go at that frickin' bastard, Brian James, and man, oh man, Kennan and he came out looking like freaking heroes.

But they weren't as good as Booth. There was something about how Booth ran the investigation that made it tighter somehow. Snappier.

Maybe he was doing both of the Queen Bees. Pillow conferences. Night-time meetings. Collins twisted the ring on his hand. Kennan had been drooling a bit when he got an eyeful of Brennan and even Saroyan and Montenegro, but the good ones always had someone sniffing around.

He checked his watch again. Okay, maybe Brennan was holding court somewhere. She had an insane schedule.

He pulled at his ear lobe and wondered where the Jeffersonian van had gotten bogged down on its way to the site. Technicians had mapped out the scene and one was actually setting up a camera to take more photographs.

And no Brennan. No Saroyan. No joy in Mudville.

And it was muddy.

He tried to scrape the mud from the soles of his shoes. Kennan was testifying in court today and he'd drawn the short straw of hitting the crime scene and dealing with the lab rats alone.

He couldn't understand a single word of intercranial interspecies interlock or osteoarthritis bilateral incisorhood, but who did, really? He just wanted some warmth and some answers and he'd let the doctors figure out the rest.

He sipped at his second cup of coffee and perused the crime scene. Everything on hold for the prima donnas. Divas. It ain't starting 'til the foxy ladies sing.

And then he saw them. Saroyan and Hodgins.

"I didn't realize it was only a two-doctor crime scene," Collins said. "Where's Dr. Brennan?"

He wasn't part of the science club so he could never read the looks they all gave one another. A secret language he had neither the time nor patience to decode.

He followed.

"Partially skeletonized remains, female, mid 30s."

"Throw in a name and you win a toaster oven."

His humor only earned him looks from the docs.

"Is that a tattoo?" Saroyan was saying.

"Definitely a tattoo," Hodgins said.

Hodgins was taking out some specimen jars and his tweezers to collect some creepy crawlies from the remains.

"Cause of death? Time? Anything else?"

"One of the interns was supposed to meet us out here," Saroyan said.

Patience and virtue and all that, but this was his job. "Look, I get it, Dr. Saroyan. Dr. Brennan is busy polishing her status as the world's best bone doctor, but I need something more definitive here than, oh, I don't know, dead."

Saroyan looked uncomfortable. And the glance at Hodgins was so poorly hidden that he knew, he just knew that something was up.

She squatted next to the body. The exam began at the chest. She was gingerly holding what was left of the clothes from the body and looking at the torso. "It's hard to tell out here, could we have some lights?"

He gestured for one of the FBI techs to bring over some more lights. If they had gotten there earlier, like within an hour of calling them. . . . He let that thought go. No good beating a snarky scientist.

"Cause of death? Something?"

Saroyan was good and Hodgins was good and even if the bones were peeking out, they could still give him enough details to start his end of the job.

Saroyan had shifted to the head. "Bullet wounds to the back of the head."

"Execution style?"

"Definitely looks that way." In the dusky light she looked a bit green. "Small caliber."

".22?" He jotted down the info. She nodded. "Any size will do at close range. Is that your read?"

"We'll. . . ."

"Run some tests." He suppressed a sigh. "Back at the lab to confirm."

"Lots of rodent activity here."

"Storm drain, lots of water, lots of. . . ," he stopped not sure how to describe the remains without earning a look from either of them. "It's the grand dining hall here."

"Judging from the decomp, I'd estimate time of death, three days."

He pulled up from his bent position and scribbled a few notes in his book. "Dr. Hodgins, anything special about the insects?"

"Mostly garden variety scavengers," he offered. "Rats had a field day."

Collins knew he'd see the corpse tonight when he closed his eyes. And it would take at least two showers with that tea tree oil or eucalyptus or mentholated soap stuff his wife had bought at the organic market to erase the smell from his nose. Kennan had suggested it.

"By the by, the local ME said she wore contacts. Green. So what? Green to enhance or green to change?"

He had a woman, probably Caucasian, 30s, tall, 5'8"-5'10", wore green contacts. Tattoo. Brunette. Shot execution style in the back of the skull. Dead three days.

Kennan would ask some sort of sciency question. He was better at talking to them. "Anything else you can tell me?"

The other details were the trivial kind that usually meant something down the road. Clothes: dark. Shoes: sensible. Necklace. Dangly earrings.

Saroyan and Hodgins both seemed to stop at the same time. One was examining the hand and something seemed to draw them both in.

Then Saroyan stood up suddenly. Hodgins shot up to steady her.

"What?"

Both looked ashen in the light.

"What's the matter?"

He's seen some pretty disgusting things on this assignment—burned bodies really the worst of it. But there had been that one, partially eaten body, feral dogs mostly, and the torso of someone whose best friend thought she could flush a body down the drain after dissolving it in Draino.

But he'd never seen the. . . what did Booth call them. . . yeah, the squints, he'd never seen them get rattled at a scene.

He kept his voice low. No need to show anything less than solidarity out in the field. "May I speak to you, Dr. Saroyan? Dr. Hodgins?" He gestured to a quiet area away from the scene.

Polite, but firm. It's how you had to handle these people, he thought. At least he wasn't dealing with the ever-so-literal Dr. Brennan, Queen of WYSIWYG.

He should be more patient. They always gave them more than he expected, but it looked like they might need Brennan as well on this one. She never rattled. He figured she was mostly hollow anyway.

"Dr. Saroyan," he started, ever polite, "is there a problem here?"

"No." She seemed to be convincing herself. "No problem."

"Is this something that requires Dr. Brennan's special expertise?" Never let them think you're questioning their abilities, he remembered Kennan telling him.

"No, we've got a good preliminary examination." Hodgins was covering for his boss.

"Why isn't Dr. Brennan here?" This was her territory. At least half of the body was scavenged and enough bones were showing that even he could tell Brennan was the best choice out here.

"She didn't answer her cell phone." Hodgins again.

"Is that normal?"

"No."

It hit him. "When was the last time you talked to Dr. Brennan?"

The good pathologist shouldn't play poker, he thought. "We haven't heard from Dr. Brennan for a few days. I left a message on her cell, but. . . ."

"Is that normal?" Hell, he didn't know what was or wasn't normal for this crew.

"Lately, yes." Saroyan looked uneasy.

"Could she have gone off to New York to be with Booth?"

_Playin' hooky for a little nookie,_ popped into his head, a holdover from his college days. He and his wife-then-girlfriend, Valerie, had practically needed to make up a whole semester of sociology for all the hooky they'd played back then.

"No, she's not in New York with Booth." Dr. Saroyan offered.

"So, where is she?"

"Here's the thing," she began, "we're not 100% certain."

"Is the doctor missing?" He had to cut to the chase. "Do you believe something or someone might be preventing her from answering her cell phone?"

Saroyan's uneasiness did not lessen.

"Maybe."

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. "When was the last time you saw her, Dr. Saroyan?"

"I've already called the FBI."

_Lie._ They would have called him or Kennan who would have called him. Only a message from Val. Late night again.

"Who did you call at the bureau?"

More discomfort.

"Agent Booth?"

"Yes, but. . . ." Her hesitation was clear. _Lies and secrets._

"Maybe we should just tell him," Hodgins put in. The man looked like he had swallowed one of his bugs and was about to explode. "We haven't heard from Dr. Brennan for a little over three days."

Collins was good at putting the puzzle pieces together. It was his specialty. He glanced back at the corpse and closed the distance and bent to look at the hand.

In the muck of the ruined hand was a ring. Silver.

A dolphin chasing its tail.

And the puzzle just clicked together.

oOo

He put in a call to his wife while following the Jeffersonian van back to the lab. _Another late night for me, too. Don't wait up._

They were trying for a baby, but as bad as he was at science, even he knew that you had to be in the same general vicinity for a pregnancy to be possible.

It was just that they'd been trying for a year now and nothing.

Each month, nothing except that sad, hollow feeling.

He imagined that's exactly how the good doctors in the van were feeling now.

He'd also put in a couple of phone calls to friends to check on Brennan's and Booth's apartments. No one in the bureau, just a couple of cops he knew. No one from the bureau.

Something was wrong. That he could sense.

Kennan was on his voicemail, probably wanting to give him a play-by-play of the court session.

He made a call to Booth, but left a message on the voicemail. Case question.

Okay, it was something they hadn't done—_he hadn't done_—since the third case. He had been frustrated by the Jeffersonian, frustrated by monthly pregnancy hopes that always seemed to be dashed, frustrated by trying to make the partnership work. But he was a man and he understood just how angry he would be if anything happened to Val and. . . .

The museum complex loomed ahead and he swept aside his thoughts. Dr. Saroyan would do a simple blood test for type and they'd have their answer. They were looking for O something. Then they'd go from there.

He pulled in beside the van and met Hodgins in the back to help unload the body bag onto the gurney. They were mostly silent as they made their way from the loading dock toward the elevators.

Once inside the enclosed space, he had a strong sense of dread almost radiating from his companions. He heard it in Hodgins' voice as he was talking to his wife on his cell_—"No, no, there's nothing wrong, just tired, babe. . . . Yeah, I'll be home as soon as we get the body into one of the cold storage compartments. . . . Another hour or so."_

He'd made his own share of death notifications over the years. The worst of it was over when you got the words out. Usually.

No sense in anticipating reactions. No sense at all. Each person reacted differently. Reading those could help in the case, but usually he felt like a ghoul watching the people explode into a million little pieces of grief and collecting samples to use later as evidence like Hodgins and his jars.

"There might be some coffee in the lounge, Agent Collins."

He nodded and said nothing, but helped lift the body bag onto the autopsy table.

"I should get tissue samples and. . . ."

He put a hand on Dr. Saroyan's arm. "Just do the blood test, Dr. Saroyan," he said. "Let's find out what we're dealing with."

She nodded and he stepped back as Hodgins set his sample case on the other table and began to unpack. "I need to get these little guys. . . ."

He nodded and watched as Saroyan took a sample from the body.

They hadn't told him much, just that she was doing something for the bureau and that she had been in communication with anyone from the Jeffersonian for a little more than 72 hours. Frankly, he still thought the best bet would be on a trip to New York with Booth, but because what FBI consultant was so valuable. . . . He brushed that aside. They'd been told three times to keep Brennan from going out to question suspects. Something was up.

He knew that Homeland Security could lay claim to her anytime and had at least once while working with them. He also knew that the State Department and a few other agencies around the country wanted her services.

_Hell_, he thought, _she could be anywhere with anyone doing anything._

Find out if it was Dr. Brennan on that slab. . . then send them home. He had enough to pull an all-nighter and roust a few people from their beds.

His phone vibrated as he stood at the doorway of the Autopsy Lab. He listened as his friend gave him the reports on Booth's and Brennan's places.

"Brennan and Booth's apartments are empty. Neighbor at Booth's hasn't seen either of them for days. Brennan's place is pretty quiet." Refrigerator was pretty empty, too. For a vegetarian, she had no vegetables in the place. He looked to gauge Saroyan's reaction, but she was true to her work and simply nodded. He watched as she placed the sample in some fancy machine that looked like an espresso machine on steroids.

Now they waited.

Waiting was the hardest part.

"You know the song, 'River Deep Mountain High'?"

She gave him that look, the look Val might give him when he asked something out of the blue.

"Tina Turner?"

He sang the first few lines, the words filling the space between them and being swallowed by the enormity of the rest of the lab.

"I met my wife that way."

"You sang to her?"

"No, uh, yes," he settled against the door jamb and watched the lights on the computer pulsate. "We were doing this variety show number senior year of high school. She got dressed like Tina Turner. Her boyfriend at the time was Ike. Her girlfriends sang backup."

"She already had a boyfriend?"

She was warming to his story. The lights blinked on the computer screen. "Yeah, but not for long. She was going to nursing school and he was off to the Army."

"She sang that song?"

"Oh yeah." The memory produced an unbidden smile. "Damn she was hot. Mini skirt made of beads that swayed with her. And she put on all the moves—the principal wanted to shut her down, but the crowd wasn't letting her off the stage. She sang like an angel and she moved like the devil herself."

"And you asked her out?"

"No, no," he protested. "Too scared. Here was Tina Turner on stage bumping and grinding and setting the stage on fire and there I was in the wings waiting to go on to sing some overdramatic love song with my guitar. I shouldn't have been allowed on the same stage with her."

Dr. Saroyan had a nice smile, he decided. It was the first he'd seen from her since. . . well, it'd been a while.

"I got on stage and she was in the wings watching and I turned to her and sang my damn song to her. I couldn't help it."

"Was it love at first sight?"

It was Hodgins asking the question. He'd changed from his field gear into jeans and a T-shirt. He was pulling a hoodie jacket over his shoulders.

"It was something at first sight." He had practically caused a riot onstage since the boyfriend—Mark Crumrine—had wanted to end his song early. "I couldn't believe I was singing to that girl who had burned up the stage, but I had. Right in front of the guy she'd been dating since the start of senior year."

"He must have hated your guts."

He smiled at the memory. A glance at the computer screen told him it would take a few minutes more. "He couldn't catch my guts. I ran cross country and track in school. Fastest 40-meter dash in school history."

"You ran?"

He nodded. "As far and as fast as I could. Mark, that's the boyfriend, followed and I swear to you, I was hiding out in this strip of land by the baseball diamond, this swamp-like area, swatting bugs and wishing I had simply turned my stool toward the audience just a tad more. I ended up covered in more mosquito bites. I looked like, hell, I don't know what I looked like except I was lucky it was a Friday night or I might be out there still."

Hodgins and Saroyan had relaxed into his story.

"Got home, scratched up from the bushes and eaten up from the bugs and my mother had me covered in all kinds of concoctions to keep me from scratching because I was one walking, talking itch. I wore socks on my hands while I slept for days. It was embarrassing. I couldn't go to school on Monday because of the bites, but everyone thought it was because Mark caught me and buried me in that swamp."

The two doctors were distracted enough to not quite notice the computer announcing its results.

"Dr. Saroyan?" He pointed at the screen.

She turned quickly with a start and read the results. "AB negative. It's not her."

He felt the tension dissipate into the expanse of the lab as if they all collectively sighed. Dr. Saroyan's stiff posture deflated and she looked absolutely drained.

"Go get changed and then go home," he said gently. "We got one of the answers we needed."

Hodgins helped him usher out Saroyan and the two men waited while she changed.

"How long have you been married," Hodgins asked, breaking the silence.

Collins took in the vertical girders and high tech platform of the lab. It seemed like some kind of space station set down between the classical lines of the Jeffersonian proper. "Almost eight years."

"Any kids?"

He shook his head. By rights they should have a million kids by now. "No, but we're trying." And trying and trying. "Everything is fine with both of us, but something just isn't clicking."

"Don't give up, man," said Hodgins.

Collins pulled his ear lobe. "Making a baby should be fun," he countered. "We're on hiatus right now. A little break. Figure it might help to gain a bit of perspective on the whole thing."

"Everyday is a little miracle," Hodgins said. "Making the baby ought to be fun. And the baby, he's fun, too."

Collins nodded. He could like these people when they were. . . people. Just people.

"Yeah, well, we're in need of one," he said. "She's talking about fertility treatments now and eggplant and pills and stuff I can't even wrap my head around." He paused and shrugged. "Science and me just don't connect. Sorry, Doc."

Hodgins grinned. "That's why you have us around."

"Yeah," Collins said. He studied the man. "I'll put out a few feelers, see what I can see about Brennan. Homeland Security could have swept her up for something; there's so much going on in the world right now."

He had no idea who or what was occupying Brennan's time right now, but he had a few people he could call. A few favors to call in.

"We weren't told much. Angie might know something more. Dr. B called her almost daily and Ange was helping her in some way. She said it was something fairly hush hush."

He listened as Hodgins spun a conspiracy theory or two. His profile from the bureau certainly didn't disappoint.

The distinctive clack-clack-clack of high heels on the Jeffersonian floor announced that Saroyan had finished changing and was headed back their way.

oOo

He waved at Hodgins as he watched his car pull out from the garage which housed the forensic van. He'd make the trek home and come at the newest case tomorrow. Along the way a few phone calls. Maybe a few more from home.

The apartment would be empty. Val would be pulling another shift at the pediatric ward.

Now it was about the money. Pills cost money. In vitro cost money. Surgery cost money. Adoption cost money.

He made what he made. She, at least, could bring in some extra money, but it still wouldn't be enough. They still had her college loan and the money he'd borrowed so his father could get into that nursing facility after the stroke. And Val wanted a house with a backyard and everything.

Checking his cell for messages as he waited at a stoplight, he left a short message for Kennan about the latest case.

Then he made a sharp U-turn and headed back toward the Hoover.

The other way he was headed back to an empty apartment. An empty place. A hollow place. At least he could put out his feelers on Brennan and start the research on the latest Jane Doe.

oOo

Checking messages first, he then opened up the missing person's database and typed in the parameters of the search. He made them initially wider than they needed to be, a trick he'd learned from an instructor at Quantico. Brennan and her crew could give him other details, things like occupational markers and whether she'd given birth, but right now he wanted to know how many women fit the info they knew right now. Sometimes the database information wasn't complete, and while it drove Kennan crazy that he did things this way, he felt a sense of completeness knowing he had upturned all the stones to see what was underneath before settling on a few.

Then he sat back and waited.

He'd done the right thing sending them home. They'd been on an emotional roller coaster worrying about Brennan. He didn't understand them, not really, but he understood the sense of concern for one of their own. He really did.

For that, he admired them. Actually, he felt envious of it. One of their own had disappeared and faced with the possibility that that unknown could have become one of the worst knowns, they had forged on, willing to unearth the truth, willing to honor the dead, willing to do what needed to be done no matter what.

He sat at his desk and waited for the information from the database to load onto his screen. Missing women fitting the description.

It was too long a list.

Feelers on Brennan were a different story. He could call a racquetball buddy who worked Homeland Security, but he was afraid that would simply be a dead end. He didn't think that agency had swept her up. Certainly they would come in, wave their shiny IDs, claim her services for a day or a week or what-have-you, then turn all men in black and disappear.

CIA? State?

They'd been warned that some of those agencies could lay claim to her. But wouldn't they be told some kind of nonsense? Wouldn't they have some kind of cover story?

People were always hiding behind stories. Something to keep people calm when, deep inside, they should be panicked. Worried, at least.

No. He really hadn't dealt with them and really didn't know what to expect.  
Any of them could have picked her up and deposited her in some remote corner of nowhere to ID some foreign Joe and then send her home.

He saved the big list, then punched in some new info.

And waited before he hit the return key.

Something was gnawing at the periphery of his thoughts. Something he had seen and he knew from experience if he just waited a bit, put his mind on something else, he'd catch what it was he had missed.

The green send button flashed on his screen so he turned to his phone and to the messages.

Val was going to see her sister on Friday. Sister with two and a half kids already. Never a good deal for him.

But it meant she would want him again. Want to try again. Want to pretend that they were making love when in fact they were trying to make a baby with his little swimmers who'd been held back this past month with the hopes that they'd get anxious and swim like crazy once the gates were opened.

"_Open those floodgates and let the boys at 'em,"_ he thought. Loudly.

Even in the sparsely populated halls outside his office, he didn't want someone overhearing him and wondering where his brain had gone.

But he knew where it had been—he remembered that thing he had forgotten. Old cop had flashed him the deceased's pubic area, still somewhat covered by the pleated skirt. He'd interrupted the thorough exam at the scene. And he'd sent them home.

Blonde. Blonde pubic hair.

He didn't want that Dr. Sweets or any other shrink to know what he'd been thinking of to get to this point. Changing the search filter took a second and in less than five the magic little monkeys had come up with a new list.

This one he took down to a couple dozen. Then a dozen. Then five.

It was a start. He sent the list to Kennan and to Miss Montenegro.

It wasn't by any means definitive, but it was something he could manage without more information. The other lists he saved.

_You never know,_ he reminded himself. _You never know._

It was a system that worked for him, gave him a pool to pick from and 99% of the time his instincts had steered him in the right direction.

The Brennan issue, _that_ was a totally different quandary.

His instinct had eliminated the spooks and the spies; they would have been given some bullshit as a cover.

But what?

He knew the best route was direct.

It was late, but the good guys never slept, right?

He dialed the number and waited, his eyes scanning the short list he'd made of the missing women fitting the description they had so far. Blondes went brunette to do what? Hide? Catch a man? Change it up?

That would have to wait. He picked up on the third ring.

"Mark Fletcher here."


	34. You've Lost that Lovin' Feeling

34. _You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'_, The Righteous Brothers

**A/N: Nope, I did not abandon this story. Life just has a habit of sneaking up and smacking me upside the head now and then and this was the now and then. I appreciate the interest and anyone still around to take this to the end with me. And remember, Bones is owned and operated by others.**

**Without further adieu. . . .**

Had she been writing one of her novels, she couldn't have scripted it better.

The antagonist, an affable, almost nebbish character, walks in on the heroine as she is obtaining information in the pursuit of a fraud case. The heroine is, colloquially, caught red-handed.

She wonders if she can bring in the origin of the term, red hand, an obvious reference to the taking of blood, first ascribed to poachers in 15th  
century Scotland, but the look on the antagonist's face tells her that her heroine cannot waste time explaining the origin of the term. Instead, her heroine spins a tale of her own woe, the need to escape from her abusive boyfriend, the need to take her own life's reins and seek a safer place. She's merely withdrawing money from her account, an account she began on the day she first started working at the bank, and converting it into plastic.

Her heroine must straddle the line between being too emotional and too rational. She seeks the middle ground. Quiet desperation colors her words.

"He ignores them mostly," the heroine tells the antagonist. "He only cares about cash."

She explains that she has a system in mind—she'll squirrel away enough of the prepaid VISA cards to use them to make her escape. They are the new traveler's checks. Cash seems to disappear from her purse, but she's been able to hide the cards.

As she's explaining, the heroine maintains eye contact. It's the best way for her to hide what her hands are doing. Her heroine is using her left hand to cover the jump drive she had collecting the account information to be analyzed later. Her right is pressing a few keys to finish the sequence she's started on the computer.

In her heroine's voice is a plea—a plea for help. This, she knows, is hard to translate onto the page, but if she uses the right words. . . . As an author, she can control the reactions of both characters in the scene and give import to the words; in real life, she must make the adjustments quickly without the luxury of a rewrite.

She hopes she is convincing.

As a real person trying desperately to hold off discovery of what she is doing, trying to manipulate another person is much, much harder. But her hard work has paid off and it seems to be working.

The antagonist, a bank manager who seems to be involved in a fraud scheme has a soft spot for the heroine who, in her undercover role, is playing a woman who is living in fear that her boyfriend will one day kill her. She has confided this information to the banker and continues to play on his sympathy because it has already been established that his back story includes years of watching his mother being abused by his father. A coincidence, certainly. A convenient plot device, but in real life, one that might still backfire. He's been remarkably sympathetic, but how far will that sympathy go when he discovers that she is taking advantage of his kindness?

And this is not a novel thread, a scene to be written and revised and reworked until perfect. She has only one shot.

Despite everything, she knows that the manager cannot be expected to be completely willing to help her. There has to be further complications to continue interest in the story. If the bank manager simply rolls over and gives the heroine everything she wants, it would seem that the antagonist is not a worthy adversary for the woman.

So he enters the workroom where she's been trying to gather information and evidence of how he's committing the fraud. He is befuddled, no, exasperated. He is angry at the attack in the lobby on his nice, orderly bank.

Yes. Then he sees the heroine taking advantage of his kindness, of his trust. Trust. A breach of trust. Sweets would say that that would upset him further, especially given his back story.

Okay. So he comes into the workroom frazzled by the chaos in his lobby only to find her, the woman who he's taken a liking to, using his trust, no, misusing his trust in her to help herself to an instrument she'll use to escape this life.

Escape from him.

It's another complication. Feelings.

The bank manager has developed feelings. The heroine has noted the physical responses from the antagonist that demonstrate to her clearly that he is interested in her in a sexual way.

She has cataloged them elsewhere—she's reported this information to Street and to Booth. He's interested in her. She's tried to reciprocate in small ways. She does have a boyfriend after all. A jealous, crazed boyfriend given to beating her on occasion. Her responses have all been held in check because of the boyfriend.

It's her safety net this abusive boyfriend.

A nice piece of irony that.

Back to the bank manager and the reason for his anger. The bank manager's exasperation comes mostly from the scene he's just left—a customer has come into the back wielding hundreds of dollars in coins and has upset the cart he's been using for the transport, causing a diversion for her, but a headache for the manager. Comes into the workroom to catch her using company time to manufacture the means by which she will escape from not only the man who has turned her into a live-in punching bag when it suits his purposes, but the man who would rescue her if he could.

She is skirting between truth and fiction and she is almost as desperate as the bank manager to bring back a semblance of order to her life. It translates to her explanation, to her body language, and she heeds the counsel of her father and her FBI handler and her lover—sometimes less is more.

So she waits.

He breaks first. "Layla, dear, all you have to do is ask." But he takes the card from her hand and swipes it in the machine and sees that she has properly encoded it for $100 and a receipt prints out showing just how much has been debited from her account. He checks the receipt. "You have the other card?"

That's why she's been given access to the workroom and she produces the card and the receipt and stands, leaning into Willy Bowman. It allows her to distract him with her presence and her pheromones and hide the jump drive in her pocket. This she will hide inside the gum package that has been specially prepared and hand it off to one of the customers who will transfer it to her father who will get it back to the FBI where its contents will be analyzed.

But she has seen enough to know how Willy Bowman has been creating the gift cards that he's been selling through Tracy Lord.

It's so simple and elegant in its design.

But she only smiles at Bowman and follows him back out to the lobby and after she gives the card to the woman who is now bouncing her child on her hip, she retreats to her teller station and opens her window for the next customer.

oOo

By the end of the day, the tension in her body has migrated to her head and the ache there is pounding. As an author, she can dictate the circumstances of the conflict and manipulate the actions of the heroine and the antagonist in such a way as to ensure a successful ending for the story.

But in real life, there are no such guarantees.

Real people cannot be expected to act in guaranteed ways. It is one of the reasons why she insisted that Booth take her into the field. It is one of the reasons she distrusts psychology.

She does not always truly understand the actions of people. She understood cultures and kinesiology and history, but she does not understand people.

Bowman has been watching her and she has had few opportunities to send a message to her father or make a phone call to Street or Booth. Each time she tries to slip away, Bowman intercepts her and she bends to another task.

Only on a bathroom break does she finally make a phone call to Street.

"I'm pulling you out of there," he says after she tells him about her progress. "You got everything we can reasonably expect to get from the guy."

She protests.

Street argues.

But her reasoning outweighs his caution. This is not a murder case, nor is it within her job description as a consultant to the FBI, but she wants to find out everything in the same way that she approaches her work as a scientist. To know everything is to have all the puzzle pieces in place and to see the whole picture.

Street's exasperation with her is evident over the phone. He, too, is someone to be studied and understood and she has spent too much time with him not to have picked up some of his expressions.

"You're a real smarty pants, you know." Street's voice is dripping with sarcasm. She out-thinks him regularly and he knows that he is handicapped when trying to force her to follow his directives. "But you've got everything."

"We still need to tie him to Tracy Lord."

That, they do not have. She needs to be closer to Bowman, perhaps spending more time with him, in order to know more about his communications with her. Or, at least, she needs to be invited into the inner circle.

As much as she would love to walk away, she cannot.

She doesn't have all the pieces.

oOo

By 1 p.m. when she snaps the closed sign at her window and begins the sequence of steps that must be done nightly to account for the cash in her drawer and the checks she's taken in, her mind is racing. Her father was supposed to return or to send in one of his cronies who would take the jump drive from her, but he hasn't followed through. Street should be outside in the car they've been using for the operation, the car her brother Russ restored and lent them for the case, but he is late.

It is not rational, but the jump drive, concealed in the pack of Juicy Fruit gum, seems to be weighing her down.

She says goodbye to the other tellers as they finish their routine and as they slowly make their way from the bank, her sense of hypervigilance becomes more acute.

Again, it is not rational, but she fears the kind of confinement she faced with the Chinese.

As an author, she would not perpetually put her heroine into another forced confinement scenario so soon after being held by the Chinese mobsters. In real life, however, she knows that such conventions are not strictly adhered to.

Her heart seems to be racing. She looks up from her work more at each new sound. Rational thought is now partnered with anxiety.

The other tellers have already counted their drawers and all but one or two are heading out. Saturdays are short days, but even in the age of electronic banking, busy enough, what with the retirees who call the bank theirs. Bowman gives her more responsibility on these Saturdays because he says she needs the extra money.

She will close out all the drawers and balance the accounts and run the computer tallies to match with her own. Then everything is placed back into the vault and left for Monday morning when the head teller will retrieve it for that day's shift.

But for today, she has reconciled the tellers' accounts and finished her work when she watches the slow close of the automatic vault door. Only then does she become aware of Willy Bowman's presence behind her.

"I didn't mean to startle you, Layla." His eyes, warm molasses, bore into her. Temperance Brennan, the 15-year-old girl, thrown into foster homes and into precarious situations with foster fathers, becomes alert and wary. Layla Knowles simply smiles.

"Artie was supposed to be here and I'm afraid he's gone off and gotten himself drunk or high. . . ."

It's the excuse that she uses for him. She has checked for him periodically, but he's not shown up and she's suddenly tired.

Temperance Brennan- the woman, the scientist, the former foster child, the daughter, the novelist, the FBI consultant, the lover—Temperance Brennan is tired of being Layla Knowles. She's tired of her proscribed role and she wants to tempt Bowman into revealing more. It's what Kathy Reichs would do. It is what Booth would allow her to do.

And this is about Booth. And protecting him by ending this case. By following the evidence and finding out where the trail leads. By pushing—just a little bit—to find out what Bowman knows and who else is involved.

"I'm tired," she says. "I'm tired of Artie getting drunk and beating. . . ." She can't finish the sentence, partly because it's not true, partly because she notices something about Bowman's body language that tells her something. She has heeded Eric Street's advice to pay attention to Bowman's body language over these past weeks and she hopes that she is seeing some more of the pattern that has grown to be familiar.

"And what, Layla? You've lost that lovin' feelin'? You want out?"

She realizes that part of what he is saying is a joke and part of it is serious. Given the percentage of women who are subjected to repeated abuse from their mates, and given the statistics on how many of them end up badly injured or killed, she knows his smile belies the truth. Three women a day die at the hands of an intimate partner. Temperance Brennan knows the statistics; but it is Layla Knowles who must use emotions to push this forward.

"I want out," she says.

There is so much truth behind her words that she is not surprised when Bowman's face grows serious and she can discern concern on his face.

Booth has told her that to be convincing, sometimes, there needs to be a modicum of truth behind her words. Here, there is so much truth: she wants out of this drawn-out operation.

"Do you want my help?"

She knows if she takes this path that there is no turning back. If she takes this step, she must commit fully to her role. The novelist in her has already utilized the speed of her genius brain and she sees the perils, the pitfalls, the pain she might cause her friends. And Booth.

There is always Booth, these days, haunting her during the day and night. She is fully independent of him, yet, in love with him as she is, she feels a certain amount of dependence on him.

"Layla? Do you want me to help you?"

Her nod is slow and hesitant and she schools her reaction to fit the situation. She wants Bowman to help her fully understand how this gift card scheme works. She already knows how he fools the computer into believing the card holder is fully funding the card. She wants to follow the evidentiary trail to the source of this fraud.

Booth would have pushed long ago had it been his case. But everyone else is cautious. Too cautious.

"Layla? Say the word and I will help you."

It is time to throw the safeguards away. To take a chance. If this were her novel, her heroine would take this opportunity.

She fingers her cell phone.

"Yes," she says, the irony thick and rich. "I need your help."


	35. Light my fire

_**Light My Fire**_**, The Doors**

He'd looked everywhere to only discover. . . she was nowhere.

oOo

"I've been to the apartment, work," he said, combing a hand roughly across his chin. "She's vanished. Gone. Disappeared."

He hated this—hated that he had to stand in front of Caroline Julian and admit that he'd lost control on this case, lost control on her. He paced as if on a short chain, back and forth, anger and fear fueling the restlessness. His search was textbook with a few inspired side notes—but nothing. Nothing. She was nowhere to be found. Save for a handful of clothes left haphazardly on her carefully made bed, he'd had nothing to suggest what had happened.

Nothing.

"And her shadows lost her as well?" Caroline Julian asked, her concern crystallizing into a tone that only ramped up the tension playing havoc with his gut.

"They lost her," Booth leaned heavily against the wall just outside the doors of the Medico Legal Lab of the Jeffersonian. He'd been extra careful on this one, belt and suspenders, but somehow that hadn't been enough. The bust in New Jersey had turned complicated and he'd trusted his people to keep her in sight at all times.

And they lost her.

He watched as Caroline weighed this newest wrinkle. He'd only landed in D.C. hours ago and he'd already been flung right in the middle of a major crisis.

He bet throwing everything into the pot only to discover he was holding garbage and he was down to his last chip.

"You know, Cherie, your operation is practically flat lining right now." She didn't mince words. "Without her, you've got bupkis."

He practically crumpled the file he'd been holding and pushed himself from the wall. He might have directed his anger into that wall, but he could ill-afford a broken hand on top of everything else. "I've still got my ace in the hole," he said, the bluff sounding hollow even to his ears.

"The other woman in your life?" Caroline's face shifted. She was onto his tells—he'd hate to go up against her in a high stakes game. "You know the one who's been working two jobs to support this little operation of yours?"

He hadn't even called her, passing over the voice mail message she'd left him. It was mixed in with messages from Cam and from Angela and this latest wrinkle had given her a poor second place. He shook his head and tried to reason out that she would understand. The case came first. She would understand. The last report he'd had had been days ago and the last time he'd talked to Brennan was. . . hell, they were exchanging texts and cryptic voice messages for almost a week now.

Phone tag and texts were no way to conduct an operation.

Hell, it was no way to keep a relationship—their relationship—going.

He swiped his hand against his forehead, trying to wipe away the ache that had rooted itself there. With Tracy Lord MIA and Bones still playing Mata Hari at the bank, it still added up to something but he had practically nothing to show for it. "Bones is fine, Caroline. It takes time to get close, you know that."

"A trained operative should have gone in," she said. "She's a scientist who works with dead people. Now if you wanted to uncover corruption at a morgue, she's your person, but. . . ."

The main doors to the lab swept open and Cam blew into his line of sight. "About time you showed up, Seeley," she said, her voice tinged with a bit of that New York pushiness she pulled out for special occasions like this one. She thrust an evidence bag in his face and it took several seconds for the item inside it to come into focus.

"Care to explain this?"

He took the bag and scanned the item. Silver. Circular.

A dolphin.

"It looks like Bones' ring," he muttered. "So? Why do you have it in an evidence bag?"

"Better question is so what's it doing on the hand of a dead woman?"

oOo

His head was just about to explode.

The phone message, the one he had ignored because he had been concentrating on Tracy Lord, had yielded only another huge question mark. And according to Max, Bones had simply vanished.

"She didn't get past my guys in the lobby or me outside." Max Keenan tapped the top of the table with his finger and studied the face of the man across from him.

"Your guys are 100 years old and likely to fall asleep," Caroline Julian interjected. "We need more than agents from the Geritol set."

"They may be old, but they're interested in a woman who shows a bit of interest in them," Max countered. "Especially a beautiful woman like my daughter. She didn't get past them."

"Snow on the roof, fire in the furnace, got it," Caroline said. She shook her head and glared at him. "But they still lost her."

Booth studied the glass top of the table. An anthropology journal lay open as if waiting on her return. Bones had to be somewhere.

Losing sight of Tracy Lord was one thing—bad enough as that was. But to lose sight of Bones? He schooled his features and tried to recall anything in the texts and messages from the previous week that might help them locate her.

But he'd been busy on the case he just wrapped in New Jersey. He'd spent as much time as possible cutting corners and pushing forward until he got the result he wanted. All the while he'd told himself he was doing it so that he could spend more time with her, he could spend more time on the gift card case. More time.

Time was against them. She was missing and the first 24 hours were critical. Bones was only supposed to nose around and keep tabs on Willy Bowman. Figure out how he was running the card operation. That's all.

Max Keenan looked absolutely feral. In his younger days, Booth imagined the man could not be stopped once his mind was made up, he wasn't going to let his quarry go. God help anyone who harmed her, he thought. The bastard would have both him and Max to deal with.

"That FBI fellow, Street, he was supposed to be covering her." Max Keenan sounded a bit desperate. "What was he doing?"

"His job," Caroline snapped back. "He was looking into information regarding a possible connection between Lord and Bowman. And he's out there now, looking for her."

"We got a body that bore some resemblance to Brennan—even had a dolphin ring like hers." Cam hugged herself and Booth could tell the usually unflappable pathologist was fraying at the edges.

They all were. It was déjà vu all over again.

"You checked the bank?"

"Motion detectors make it highly unlikely she's inside, moving around at least." Max launched into a squinty listing of the security equipment used by the bank, drawing raised eyebrows from Caroline and an impatient wave of the hand from him.

"I get it," Booth said, "It's Fort Knox."

"I could get in," said Max. "If I were interested. But I couldn't get into Fort Knox. That's tougher."

"We should break in."

Caroline's eyebrows shot up.

"No."

"Why?"

"No one's breaking in, Max." Booth put up his hands as if to stop the inevitable argument from the former con man, but Max only seemed to deflate a bit.

"The hair we discovered wrapped around the ring is Brennan's," Cam added in her own twist. "A perfect match,"

"Wrapped?" Booth was trying to wrap his head around it all, but he had difficulty focusing. Max seemed to be coiling into a spring of tension about ready to burst.

"Roots intact." Cam's tone registered confusion. "It's as if someone wanted us to know it was hers. We usually pull 6-12 for a sample, and this one had exactly 6."

His gut was screaming at him as anxiety now set him back on his heels. Brennan hadn't been in contact with the lab for three days, but Max had seen her only yesterday. Scratch that. He checked the calendar on his watch. They'd passed midnight quite some time ago. Day before yesterday. Her ring showed up complete with hair for a DNA test yesterday on a body dump.

_Why?_

He felt the shift as his senses kicked in and kicked down the anxiety to a slow, steady thrum. That wasn't going away anything soon. Not until he saw Brennan, held her.

_Deal with what you can,_ he thought. _Follow the evidence._

"Have you identified the victim?"

Cam shot him a look and shook her head. "No," she said carefully, "but not from a lack of trying."

"This woman doesn't exist."

oOo

Even after years working with the Jeffersonian, he still couldn't read the screen that Cam pulled up on the monitor in the Autopsy Lab. He recognized it as a DNA profile—Brennan's—but only because Cam had labeled the samples. A glance at Max told him just how worried the man was. His hand had been reaching out to the screen as if by touching the evidence of her existence could somehow make her more real.

"Jane Doe?"

"Wendell's cleaning the skull now." Cam's voice still sounded ragged with worry. But it was now colored with annoyance as well. "She's had dental work, but none of it shows up in the missing persons database. She's got more tattoos than. . . ," she struggled for a description, ". . . the tattooed lady, but nothing comes up with shops in DC, Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, Delaware. . . ."

"Under the table tats?" Caroline hurrumphed.

"Off the grid."

They all turned to Max.

"She's off the grid. Just like your contact on this gift card fraud. Tracy Lord's not her real name," he offered, "you've said that, Booth. It's Katherine Hepburn's character in that movie. . . ."

"_Philadelphia Story_," supplied Caroline.

"_Philadelphia Story. _This woman's not showing up in your missing persons databases because someone doesn't want you to know who she is. If she has been working with someone in the FBI who's dirty, they could have wiped her from the system, helped her get a new ID and make sure whatever trail she leaves is just what they want you to know."

"You would know," Caroline shot out at him.

"Hey."

"You are the leading expert in this room at getting yourself wiped clean from the system," Caroline said, unrattled. "So the question remains, who is this woman and why is she wearing your brainiac partner's ring with wisps of her hair to hold it in place?"

"She's connected to your gift card fraud." Max's intense gaze reminded him of Brennan's. "Why else would Tempe put her ring on a dead woman's finger and leave behind DNA evidence?" The silence seemed to suck the air out of the room, a mean feat for the rich air flow of the Autopsy Lab.

"What do her tattoos say?" Booth asked, something clicking in his brain. "Give me that description again."

If they had given it to him once, he couldn't remember. But the tumblers all began to fall into place as he strode to the platform where Wendell and Hodgins were bent over the skull of the woman they were still trying to decipher. With a swipe of his card, he closed the distance and looked at the remains—little more than bleached bones laid out in a configuration he'd seen all too often.

"Do you have pictures of the tattoos?" he addressed Wendell.

"Agent Booth, er, yes," he said as he set down a Petri dish with a small click on the examination table. "But there's something else. . . ."

"The tattoos."

"You really should. . . ."

"The tattoos."

Wendell turned toward the monitor reluctantly and brought up the array of tattoos—obscured by blood and bites—but enough for Booth to see something he'd seen over and over again as the last few weeks wore on. One tattoo across what had once been her chest ended in "ills", a sad comment on her demise, he thought. "Heavenly hills," he announced. "That's 'Heavenly hills,' she had it tattooed across her. . . " he made the sign across his chest.

"Breasts," Cam supplied.

"Yeah. And that one, that's 'Light my fire.'"

"Interesting place to put that one," Hodgins said.

"You know the victim?" Cam asked.

"How'd you know about the tattoos? What they say?" Wendell seemed to ask the questions they all had.

"I've seen them," he said. He pointed at the skeleton. "You've found her. Max is right. That's Tracy Lord."

He held in check the emotions coursing through him, careening out of control. His attention should be on the victim, but he couldn't help thinking about Brennan. He'd lost Brennan before—to crooked agents, insane attorneys, mad Chinese. He felt her slipping away from him because of, what? Money? Greed? He let out the breath he'd been holding and glanced back at the monitor, hoping he'd been wrong about the tattoos. With Tracy Lord dead, his fraud case just took an ugly turn.

And the phone message he'd finally gotten to from Brennan had done nothing to allay his worry. It had only stirred it more.

"Well, besides tattoos in interesting places," Hodgins said as he picked up the Petri dish Wendell had laid down, "she likes to carry her gum in interesting places as well."

"I don't want to know," Caroline said. "Gum?"

"It looks like a full pack," Hodgins said as he set the dish down and began working to re-open the flaps of the gum pack with a pair of tweezers. "But it's really a USB drive."

"Juicy Fruit?" Max stared at the pack. "That's Tempe's."

oOo

This wasn't supposed to involve murder and mayhem. Just plastic. A little undercover work under the watchful eyes of an FBI agent and her father. More belts and suspenders. This was supposed to be a quick in and out kind of assignment. Go in, find some information he could use, get out.

The case had dragged on. He'd practically been killed. Tracy Lord dead. Brennan missing.

After the Chinese, he had promised himself he'd protect her. Watch her. But time and circumstances had conspired against them and they both had put their lives on hold because of someone else's greed.

And he was as far away from an answer as he'd ever been.

"The foil pack mostly kept the drive dry," Angela said as she removed the cap and examined the business end of the drive. "It seems to be in good shape."

Her hand shook as she tried to insert the drive into the USB slot, but Hodgins reached out and steadied it as they both drove it home.

"The computer recognizes it."

Angela began a recitation of her process as she clicked on the file. He knew the play-by-play was merely echoing what they would have to put in their reports. He'd waited as they followed protocol and Hodgins extracted the drive and Cam dusted it for fingerprints while Wendell washed away the flesh and body and ooze from the wrapper before setting that aside to be analyzed as well.

It was all carefully done to exacting standards despite the fact that none of them wanted to wait. But if they had a ghost of a chance that this was a message from Brennan, they had to honor her, honor her science, and do all they could to gather evidence_. And if it was her last message?_

"There are two files. Password protected."

He watched as Angela's fingers flew across the keyboard and offered up one password after another.

"Daffodil? Daisy?" He ignored the looks from Cam and the others. "Jupiter?"

The tapping against the keyboard went on as Angela tried one word after another. Angela leaned back, frustration coupled with fear making her voice unsteady. "I know her passwords. Maybe she didn't leave this for us."

"Or maybe she used a different password. One that Booth would know. Or one that has significance to the case." Hodgins cheerlead from the sideline. "You found the drive. . . ."

"Behind the right tibia. It was lodged in the decomposed flesh." Wendell noted. "Under the circumstances, it was a pretty good hiding place." He looked slightly embarrassed by his comment.

Angela fed the computer the additional suggestions, but they yielded nothing.

"I can try a way into the program through a back door. Or I can get the computer to run a pass code breaking sequence. . . ."

"Jasper," said Booth.

"Jasper?"

"Just try it." She glanced back at him, but she let the question pass.

"Jasper it is."

Six letters later, they were in.

He ignored their collective looks and leaned into the screen as the files appeared.

"Oh, my God."

The first file brought an explosion of numbers onto the screen.

"They look like. . . ," Angela started.

". . .Bank account records," Caroline finished. She pulled out her phone. "I'll have a forensic accountant take a look at these."

"What's that one, Ange?"

"The one labeled 'Tony?'"

Booth paused and had the people around him not been so close, might have taken a step backward.

"That's for me," said Booth.

Angela hesitated. "Maybe we shouldn't open it now, Booth. Maybe it's personal."

He waved her off. It wasn't like Bones to leave him a personal—_very personal_—message on a USB drive already brimming with evidence. "Just open it up, Angela," he murmured.

The document took a moment to load. It began with a list of names ending in a note—"Financing cards." Then. . . .

"Architectural plans," Angela announced.

"For what?" Hodgins asked as he peered into the screen.

It took a moment longer, but it was Max who had the explanation.

"It's the bank," he said, finally. "It's the bank and it shows that there was a fallout shelter constructed under it. See?"

His thick finger pointed at a room that appeared on one of the pages.

"So, what? The bank has a fallout shelter. A lot of public buildings and some businesses put them in during the Cold War." Cam straightened and shook her head. "Now I am officially pissed. I'd like to know what you've been doing these past weeks and why this is important. I don't like being out of the loop, people."

"It's significant because Brennan's been working undercover helping Booth to uncover fraud regarding those plastic gift cards," Hodgins supplied. "The ones like credit cards."

"Someone's been flooding the Eastern seaboard with these cards and cheating the stores out of millions," Caroline said. "But we haven't been able to get a handle on who is behind all this."

"And the best link to the case is dead," Max said, his voice low and mournful. "And Tempe's missing."

oOo

He replayed the phone message from Brennan as he sat in her office and waited.

The content still eluded him, but the tone, low and almost emotionless, was definitely her.

Seven numbers.

Angela was running the numbers against the bank accounts. Max was doing whatever ex-cons did. Cam was re-examining the body with Wendell. Hodgins was doing his . . . .

It didn't really matter what everyone was doing. Because all he felt like doing was beating himself up for not being there for her.

He even tried the numbers on his phone only to be connected to a local synagogue.

He doubted there was a connection, but he had sent agents there anyway.

With an architectural drawing of the bank's fallout shelter, seven numbers, a slew of bank records, hair, ring. . . he couldn't quite piece together the puzzle. Why had someone put her ring and hair on a dead body? Was it a message? One woman dead, the other. . . .

His phone came to life and he answered it, grateful for the interruption.

The bank manager was missing, too. He'd expected that. The bodies and questions were piling up.

"Booth?"

He looked up and without thinking, his body uncoiled itself from the couch and his fist connected with the man's chin. Eric Street staggered backward and barely caught himself from crashing into the glass coffee table. The blow barely registered for Booth.

"Damn, Booth." The undercover agent held up his hand as if to stop another onslaught while his other massaged his jaw. "Damn."

Booth was on his feet, his fists at his sides, the blood roaring in his ears.

"Hell, Booth," Street groaned, "what did you hit me with? A sledgehammer?"

Street straightened warily and held out a small recorder. "Listen to this, man." He rubbed his chin.

Booth took the recorder, located the play button, and was suddenly surrounded by voices.

"This is the 9-1-1 call center at Fairfax. How may I help you?"

"There is a body in a tunnel beneath the Plymouth 1st Bank and Trust branch on Carlyle Street. Based on the pelvic girdle and general features of the skull, it is a Caucasian female, 170 cm, 135 lbs with what appears to be a single gunshot to the back of the skull. I would judge it to be 22 caliber. Judging from the rate of scavenging from rats, I would estimate she's been dead for 72 to 86 hours."

Booth stood there stunned. He really shouldn't be. He'd seen so much over the years that nothing should really surprise him, but this? "How long?" Booth asked. "How long have you had this?"

"I just got it. One of the original cops who caught the case remembered your partner. Thought this was no coincidence." Street continued to rub his tender jaw. "Obviously, she had the means to call this in. She might still have her cell phone."

"Oh, she has her cell phone," Hodgins announced as he walked into Brennan's office.

"I know you guys are geniuses, but how could you possibly know that?" Street asked.

Angela held up her cell phone. "Because she's texting me right now."


	36. One

_**One**_**, U2**

_Author's note: You know how you read your writing after you've put it out there for the world to see and you notice mistakes that make you cringe? My apologies. Just remember that the Navajos used to deliberately weave in mistakes in their baskets and blankets because nothing is perfect. While this story might not hold your meals or keep you warm, I do hope you find it entertaining mistakes and all. _

It just takes one mistake.

Just one.

It's a high wire act working undercover. One false step, one gust of wind, one malfunction and bam, it's a fall to earth without a safety net.

But here's the thing—I was supposed to be the safety net.

She wasn't to do anything more than get William Bowman to talk to her. Pay attention to how things are done in the bank. Access files, if possible, and pass them along. Maybe get close enough to the guy so that he confessed his sins and we could all go back to sleeping in our own beds at night.

I play the belligerent SOB, Artie, who lives with her and beats her on occasion when the beer money runs out or the job gets to me. I coach her, keep her in sight, chauffeur her back and forth between her pretend life and her real life.

Bottom line: I should have said no.

If it looks like a sure thing, it usually isn't. Not in undercover work. But Brennan and her dad had thought out the plan, given me details, explained their reasoning, suggested safety nets. . . hell, it was hard to say no to something that well-thought out. And simple.

I okayed it. I take full responsibility for it.

But taking responsibility means shit when you're facing her partner and you've got nothing and you don't know where the hell she is.

Max's grey crew were supposed to distract the bank manager and give her time to go back and access the main computer terminal and download any information she could. That's all. I had my back-up keeping watch on the bank, and he swears neither Brennan nor Bowman left.

So how the hell did she leave?

oOo

People want something for nothing. And in these times when it seems the rich get richer and the poor are hanging out on the streets begging for coins from passersby, who wouldn't want to earn four quarters for their two?

Everything's on sale that way. Follow?

You'd think that it would be harder to forge gift cards at a bank what with daily checks and government overseers and the like. Banks have checks and double checks and the tellers are under constant scrutiny because of video surveillance.

So it's the bank manager, right?

Right.

But how the hell do you prove it when there's no proof?

oOo

Booth takes off following the GPS coordinates being sent to Montenegro's phone while I head off to the bank. They tell me that Bowman's not available and I say, "Really?" and play the head teller, a Mrs. Millie Barkley, the 911 tape. The cops thought it was a prank, but now that we've seen the fallout shelter, head Brennan's voice, it's clear that the cops made a mistake. In less than 3 minutes I'm in the safety deposit box vault at a door that she claims hasn't been used since Eisenhower and I punch in the seven numbers that Brennan left on Booth's voicemail.

They might have buried Eisenhower and all the dead presidents there in that tunnel for the smell that hits us.

Mrs. Barkley excuses herself, and I disappear to the sound of retching behind me.

Some enterprising soul thought a fallout shelter connected to another fallout shelter was a good idea and Bowman discovered it and used it like Houdini. Scratch that; Bowman and Brennan used it in their magical disappearing act.

Under Carlyle Street, someone killed Tracy Lord and left her body to be eaten by rats. The ALS light one of the guys shines on the scene shows enough blood to confirm the site. I pass on this information to Silverman who assures me that he'll have a full tech team down here to scour the place for evidence. Brennan's already been here and started her own breakdown: I find Layla Knowles' bank ID badge and her key to the women's washroom.

And a bullet.

It's neatly wrapped in a discarded latex glove. It's smashed and spent and probably a .22. Someone's marked where it hit the wall with another latex glove stuffed in the hole and a single word on the glove in pen: bullet.

"I told you she was full of surprises," Silverman reminds me over the phone.

"When she told me she likes to follow the evidence," I counter uncertain of how to explain what I'm feeling. "God, she's pretty damned literal."

"Like I said," Silverman tells me again, "she's full of surprises."

I hear him issuing orders to agents and I wait as it sounds like he's got the 27th Calvary mounting up to stage their own kind of rescue. "Fill me in later about why you were late picking her up."

I do my job well, Silverman knows that. But I hear the accusation in his voice.

Not being there to pick her up might have been my one mistake.

My phone beeps and I leave two agents to secure the crime scene while I follow the trail Brennan's left. Silverman will have techs there in 10 minutes.

It's all the time I need to come up through the tunnel into another shelter under a deli.

Used to be a deli. Probably a small Mom and Pop grocery in the past when the shelter was built. Now it's in foreclosure—even the need to eat can't keep a place like this in business these days.

There's no fancy door at this end, just something heavy and solid and I'm past the lock in seconds thanks to a piece of plastic.

A plastic gift card.

There's boxes of them in the tunnel, some from stores, others from restaurants, a few of the prized ones from VISA.

Not for the first time I think of Hansel and Gretel leaving a trail of evidence like breadcrumbs.

oOo

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have taken the case. It seemed amateurish at best—some FBI consultant working undercover, her father playing backup, her partner running the case by remote. But they had some pretty compelling evidence that this banker was behind a fraud that could devastate an already devastated local economy.

Damn.

A dirty FBI agent could be behind the fraud. And I hate—_absolutely hate_—dirty cops.

Double damn.

Millions of dollars were in play and no one—three agents and counting—couldn't draw the lines to connect the dots.

Triple damn.

As my grandfather used to say, three damns and you've got hell and someone should do something about it.

I couldn't disagree much, given the circumstances. Besides, Silverman made it a special request.

It's hard to say no to the boss and even harder to say no to the man who walked you through your first cases and held your hand after your first shooting. There's a bond, an invisible thread that he can pull and I have no resistance. Silverman's one of those men that you'd follow into the jaws of hell and you'd do it because he's Silverman and he's a man of honor.

According to everyone I've talked to, so is Booth.

It pays to know the players. I've worked undercover for years now and I know the drill—understanding everything you can about the players increases your chances to get out alive with all limbs intact and increases your chances of success.

Like I said, three damns and you've got hell. And someone's got to turn down the heat.

oOo

I grew up in the Rogers Park neighborhood of Chicago. City of Big Shoulders and all. Those shoulders were broad enough to hold the weight of what seemed like dozens of different nationalities that seemed to congregate on my block.

My grandparents owned the building and ran the little storefront—a little corner grocery. I lived with my parents in one of the apartments above the store and gramps rented out a few to the ever-changing pageant of people coming into the city.

My block was a mini-United Nations. Walk from one end to the other and you could get groceries from my Polish grandfather, kimchee from the Korean restaurant, henna tattoos at the Indian salon, a silver bracelet from the Mexican jewelers and a locally printed Ethiopian newsletter if you were interested at the import shop at the end of the block.

My dad was a Chicago cop. One of the good guys. No one messed with the people on our block because my dad didn't allow it. Gang members, local toughs, didn't matter. My dad let it be known that you hurt one of those people, you were messing with him.

Around all those people, I got to be good with languages. My parents wanted me to go off to become a translator.

All I wanted was to be a cop.

I don't know why I said anything about where I grew up. I don't usually open up about it. Why would I? Undercover work means you're someone else and over the years I've gotten pretty good at pretending to be from somewhere else. It's just that this whole case, this whole business of babysitting an FBI consultant while she's playing undercover has got me thinking.

Maybe I'm thinking too much.

oOo

Montenegro's forwarded me the GPS coordinates that are playing on her phone and Silverman's techs are on scene by the time I'm in the light. I'm going to be Booth's backup whether he wants it or not.

I'm going to see this one to the end.

GPS in the car gives me a route and I head north.

That sweet ride Artie's been driving, the Trans Am, has been towed by now and they've probably popped the trunk. It's not as neat a package as the ones that Brennan is leaving, but it's a package.

There's a reason Artie was polishing the car all the time. A reason I kept that finish pristine.

Fingerprints.

The first rule in undercover, well, my first rule, is to know the players. Second rule? Paranoia is your friend.

Jerk put his whole hand on the car, on the hood, and I knew. Same sloppy work near the gas tank and one of the doors near the ground.

There's only one reason that an active FBI agent's fingerprints were on my car. Only one.

And it's about the only reason why I would have been late. I knew just how precious the package I was babysitting was. My job was to protect her and coach her and debrief her and I do my job until the end.

My phone chirps and Silverman's voice tells me the crime scene is being processed.

"Your car?"

I know Silverman. There's a whole slew of questions he wants to ask, but he says nothing. There's trust and then there's Silverman trust.

"We got your package out of the car. He's a bit banged up, and pissed he got caught."

"Sorry," I say, "I should have told you he was in the trunk. Slipped my mind."

The sarcasm is for Silverman who might enjoy this more if his star witness wasn't missing. "Someone placed an incendiary device under your vehicle and it was attached to the ignition."

Paranoid's good, especially when someone's trying to kill you.

"We started up your vehicle in front of your package." Silverman loves a good story and he pauses for dramatic effect. "Practically pissed himself trying to get away."

oOo

Know your players.

Growing up as I did, I got to know how to read people. My dad would walk the block every night and let the people know he was around, he'd look out for them. He could sometimes sniff out trouble before anyone said a word to him, but he often had to rely on the trust he built with them. Let's face it, people just in from outer Mongolia just wanted to live their lives. Most didn't want the police showing up. But my dad wanted them to see things were different in America. He was different. He wanted everyone to watch out for everyone else. So, I learned a few things from walking that block with my dad.

Know your players.

I read the profiles. Bowman was easy enough—a dollar and cents kind of guy. Not terribly confident around the ladies, but he was determined not to be like his old man, a guy who would smack his mother around. Bowman was the kid who worked his way through college working two jobs and once he was settled, looked around and was wondering how it was that the world had slipped past him.

Lord? She wasn't on my radar, really, but I wanted to be prepared. At least three other agents had tracked her, but it was Booth's report that told me the most about her. From what anyone could tell, she'd been on her own and doing anything to get by for herself and her kid.

Then there was Booth. Ex-Army Ranger. Sniper training. Great solve to conviction rate. No nonsense kind of agent.

Hell, the man arrested his partner's father. Twice.

The father was a con man, a former bank robber who somehow slipped through the cracks of the system.

Then there's Brennan. The written reports say one thing. Listen to the techs who have to work with her on cases and the word is that she's made of the same stuff that sunk the Titanic.

oOo

My code is simple: stay alive.

Keeping your emotions out of it helps. But there's always going to be an emotional component. Even the first impressions have some bias attached to them.

First impressions stick. My father took those seriously. But he would say that people will surprise and a first impression isn't always the best impression.

I couldn't see how the very aloof and cold Dr. Brennan was going to transform into a femme fatale for this assignment. She was beautiful— any man in her presence would want to thaw her ice—but she was a stiff, cold-blooded scientist and I didn't see it. Besides, she was still sporting the marks from her go 'round with the Chinese. No amount of makeup could hide those marks.

But we were going to go with them. Use them. Use her.

Use me, was more like it.

Hell, yeah, I resented the babysitting job. But Silverman said it was important.

So I asked for a test. She had to show up at a restaurant or bar or someplace and prove she could be this Layla to my Artie.

If first impressions mean anything, then my first impression of Layla was totally different than my first impression of Dr. Brennan.

I know it was an act. I know that.

But I think I fell in love.

oOo

I'm laying this out like this because I want you to understand what happened. And why.

And that I take full responsibility for not taking care of her however this turns out.

Playing Artie to Layla worked. I was the despicable bastard she couldn't let go of; she was the beautiful, but tortured woman I beat on.

It was playacting. Put on a good show. Let the world around us think I beat her. After each act we returned to our former selves—Dr. Temperance Brennan and Eric Street.

The thing that I know from working like I do is that there is a part of you in the role you play. Maybe years working undercover has brought out the mean in me; maybe it's always been there.

To see Brennan as a vulnerable woman, almost childlike, who could turn on the sexuality like a tap, you had to know that there was some of that in her.

In some ways, it was a hard assignment. We were like pinballs—in constant motion. Off to the bank, then to the Jeffersonian, then off to the Hoover, then back to the Jeffersonian, back to the bank.

Never once did she forget what she was supposed to do or who she was. I coached her, tried to get her to tap into that vulnerable side so she could show it more to Bowman, draw him in with her need.

I guess I was hoping to see some of that in the great Dr. Temperance Brennan.

But when she and her father came in with that plan—he unloads a ton of coins in the lobby of the bank so that she can go into the back and access the main computer—she presented it in a way I hadn't seen before.

She wasn't sure of herself.

It was the first time I saw that side of her. It lasted for seconds, a tiny flicker, but I saw it.

She wanted to move the case forward. I could see her point—hell, she had to be exhausted trying to maintain her schedule at the lab and playing Layla to boot. And she had to be worried about Booth. The longer this dragged on, the more open we were all to danger.

More than that, it seemed that there was a shift in the wind ever since Booth had been shot. I knew she worried about him, worried that each trip to work one of his cases might be his last.

She says she doesn't believe in instinct, but something was in the air.

The other agents on the case had been reassigned. Nobody stuck long and Booth's schedule seemed to be at the tipping point. His boss, Fletcher, always seemed to find him something else to do than to work the case.

And for all the right reasons, I okayed that little stunt in the bank.

oOo

I catch up with Booth off 95. We're within spitting distance of Maryland and the GPS numbers have quit on both of us. Max is riding shotgun and instead of Brennan's affable old man, I see the hardened bank robber who could gut and barbecue a man to protect his family.

Both Max and I have to make this up to her.

Booth's got a paper map sprayed out on the hood of his Sequoia and he's barking into his phone looking for answers.

"Booth, just shut up for a minute and let us process this."

It's Dr. Saroyan barking back.

Max looks past Booth and settles on my car. "Where's Russ' car?"

It was one sweet ride and I thought more than once that I wouldn't mind buying it from Brennan's brother and tooling around town in it, but undercover work means you leave one life for another and it's best not to take things from one assignment into the next.

"I had to have it towed," I lie but don't lie.

Max lets me have it for hurting the car, but he's really lashing out about leaving his daughter. I could turn it right back on him, but I stand there and take it.

"Booth?"

A disembodied voice comes through the speaker on his phone and only then does Max give up.

"Booth?"

"Cam, you got something?"

His bark is softer now, more controlled, but the muscles in his neck are taut wires.

"The GPS coordinates include where the body was dumped."

"So? How does that help us?"

It's Max who sees the bigger picture. Booth's focused on finding Brennan, but Max sees the scheme his daughter's been weaving.

"She helped him get rid of the body." Max is warming to the idea. "Bowman uses her to help him get rid of the body so that she's tied to him. She's got to help him because she's now an accomplice."

It doesn't feel right. "Bowman's not the killer," I offer. "It's not his style." I know my players. "He was probably surprised by the body and they decide to take it and dump it. That's why she tagged the body like she did. She left her ID and the bullet in the tunnel. He left her alone with it. The ring? Her hair?" Hell, she probably talked Bowman into dumping the body so she could leave behind the USB drive.

"So, they're on the run together?"

"No." Booth is putting the pieces together. "She helps him and leaves bits of herself behind to let us know that she's fully aware of what is going on. She's in control."

"Leaving bits of her different personas behind. . . ," begins a male voice, but he's cut off.

"She had to have some time with the body to examine it," Dr. Saroyan's voice adds to the conversation. "She came up with cause of death, Booth. Single gunshot to the back of the skull."

"Hey Booth?" This female voice is pitched a tad higher. "That list of names are people who are all dead."

Nothing should surprise us at this point, but I stare at Booth. He's just as stumped.

"Angel?" Max leans into the phone on the hood of the car. "Could you read off the list of names?"

She begins the roll call and by the sixth name Max's expression changes.

"That's Francis Madsen?" When Ms. Montenegro confirms, Max straightens and eyes Booth. "He died three weeks ago at Pleasant Valley Convalescent Home. Angel?" He turned back to the phone. "Did he have a bank account at Plymouth?"

"It's Angela, Max," she corrects him, and the pause is enough to start filling in the puzzle. Booth's nodding as if he's seeing the big picture. "Yes. Yes." She reads off the numbers and the account's balance. "It's still active."

Muted voices tumble out of the phone, but I can only understand one: "Aren't they supposed to close those accounts?"

Booth nods ever so slightly and he practically whispers, "That's my girl," before he finishes the picture. "Bowman uses the accounts of dead seniors to fund the cards. The family might take weeks, months, to get through all the paperwork, insurance papers. By the time they get to the bank account, Bowman has emptied it."

"Post dates the transactions," Angela adds, "so he can hide what he's done."

"That son of a bitch," Max says.

"You'll find all those accounts active," Booth says. "He's stealing from the dead."

Brennan's figured this all out after looking at the computer records. How much she got from Bowman, I can't say, but if she hid the USB on the body, it couldn't be much. She's still playing Layla Knowles and she doesn't have much time. She's left us a trail of bread crumbs and they stop here. I look past the vacant lot we're parked in toward the cars whizzing past us toward Maryland and suddenly I see how the lines are connected.

I know my players. I trust my instincts.

"I know where she's headed," I say. "But you're not going to like this."

oOo

I walked with my dad one last night before heading back to Washington and my new job at the FBI. Waving at shopkeepers, trying to bridge the language gap with people struggling to learn English. I had my newly minted badge in my pocket and a sense of responsibility to the man who'd made it possible.

I was heading back to DC the next day, and felt the chill in the air. Skies over Chicago rarely give up the stars because of the city lights, but I could almost see the heavens that night. It felt like a special night.

My dad spoke his pidgin Hindi or Tagalog or Swahili and I looked on as store owners would come out to greet him or shake his hand because he spoke their language— respect.

He knew how to take care of people. Keep them safe.

For 25 years he walked that street after his shift, no matter the weather, and let people know he cared about them. He was riding a desk by then, but my mother took comfort in him being safe.

But, like I said, it takes one mistake.

Someone woke him up that night with a phone call, something moving in their store. Desta Wegaye and his family had fled Somalia just three months earlier. People who have only known desperation and fear carry that with them, so the phone call wasn't something new. My dad went down the block to check it out.

He must have surprised someone and sent him scurrying, but despite the fact that he took his usual precautions—gun and vest and a call in for back-up—Wegaye made a mistake, thought my dad was the prowler and bashed him over the head with the nearest object he could find—a tall metal garbage can.

One mistake.

One.

And a cop trying to do the right thing, watching out for people, finds himself on medical riding a wheel chair rather than a desk.

oOo

Lights and sirens help us close the distance, but time is against us. Bowman's probably taking her to see his boss or his partners and the app that was on Brennan's phone broadcasting her position has quit. At times like these you hope for the mundane, that her phone has run out of juice, or. . . or. . . or what? She's decided to live a life on the run with a former banker and spend the millions this guy has ripped off people?

The techs over-running the bank have found multiple card machines in the fallout shelter that could be ganged together to encode several cards at the same time. The Jeffersonian eggheads are pouring over photos of the area around the bank looking for a vehicle that could be Bowman's. Someone's at the bank looking over records of repossessed vehicles hoping Bowman's taken one. FBI wonks are triangulating the last known position of her cell phone.

Brennan's ruse will only go so far and I'm hoping that she's talked Bowman into laying low or holing up somewhere until she can get a message out about her location. Hell, I'm fine with her wrestling the guy to the ground or clunking him on the head and just making a run for it.

Because all it takes it one mistake.

Just one.


	37. No Woman, No Cry

_**No Woman, No Cry**_**, Bob Marley and the Wailers**

She was tired of living a lie.

They were speeding off to no where in particular—_as far as she could tell_—Bowman making directional shifts as if he wanted to turn their escape route into some kind of Gordian knot to confuse anyone following.

It annoyed her.

As did the wig that still whipped about against the strong air currents within the car. With the car hitting 65 mph and the windows rolled down to dissipate the smell of decomposition that Bowman was adamant still clung to the car, not only was she wary of the wig shifting, but her eyes had begun to burn under the contacts as well. Trying to have a conversation had become impossible with the rumble of the car's tires against the road and the roar of the wind in the car. Her few suggestions—to stop for food or for a restroom—had had to be shouted.

Glancing at the side mirror, she looked for a familiar black Sequoia or Russ' Trans Am or Hodgins' Mini Cooper or any of the cars her friends drove.

Nothing.

A look toward Bowman was like the other dozen or so glances cast his way; he gripped the steering wheel with a fierce intensity. His posture had not shifted much in the last half hour and she imagined which muscle groups would be stiff and ungainly when they did finally stop and Bowman alit from the car.

If this was being on the run. . . .

Images of her parents speeding off from their home in Chicago in a vain attempt to escape McVicker, the pig farmer hit man, came unbidden. She knew their feelings and motivations were much different than her own.

They hadn't carried a homing beacon, a cell phone transmitting its GPS coordinates to another cell phone. No. They'd sped off into the unknown leaving only questions and pain and doubt. They had been playing their own kind of game.

She was perfectly fine if the FBI or even local police stopped their flight; she had no desire to repeat a scene from her parents' lives.

She stole another glance toward Bowman. While she understood the emotional turmoil one might feel from seeing the body of a dead person—she had seen hundreds of reactions to the dead over the years—she thought it a waste of time and resources to drive aimlessly through Virginia rather than to stop and to create a plan. Bowman's "escape" seemed pointless meandering wasteful of resources and time.

She wondered, not for the first time, if it might not be better to simply admit to who she was, tell him that she had an excellent grasp on how he had conducted the fraud and that he would be well-advised to divulge everything given that a federal agent had been shot in the line of duty probably because of this case and a woman had definitely been murdered as a direct result of something involving the theft.

But a greater mystery remained and despite a strong sense that the truth would be far better than the lies he had been living, Temperance Brennan knew that all the puzzle pieces had yet to be turned over.

Someone knowing of her penchant for puzzles had suggested that she turn over the pieces and use only the shape of the pieces to guide her in putting it together. She'd ignored the suggestion knowing the challenge in reconstructing a human skull shattered into bits or reconnecting a skeleton crushed into hundreds of pieces far outweighed any temporary pleasure she might derive from such a challenge.

This was still a puzzle of a different sort and somehow, even with some of the pieces turned upside down, she wanted to reconstruct the whole image.

So she bided her time, endured the wig whipping about in the windy car, and calculated the distance and best time to the next rest stop where she could relieve some of the dryness in her eyes.

oOo

Okay, as irrational as it seemed, she was relying on guesswork. Not Sweets' guesswork, no. Sweets had predicted that Bowman would, in Sweets' words, "fold like a house of cards" the moment he was in police custody.

"He feels entitled to the money, as if he's earned the right to take it," Sweets had suggested at the last meeting she had had with their team on this case—Silverman and Street and Sweets. Her father had attended as well, claiming he was amused by the fact that it was one of the few times he'd ever been in the Hoover building as a guest of the bureau rather than as a suspect in handcuffs.

"But Bowman has a fear of authority figures," Sweets said as he detailed his reasoning, "brought on by his abusive father, and while he is using the gift card scheme as a was of defying that authority, he's also someone who is ultimately controlled by that authority."

But Bowman wasn't folding. He'd even greeted a police officer at the last rest stop.

No. She would not rely on Sweets's guesses. Inconsistencies like Bowman's chat with the police officer about traveling the byways of American roads had only verified the fact that psychology produced possibilities, not probabilities.

Despite her rejection of Sweets' guesses, she was still relying on guesswork. Not Sweets', no. Not Silverman's or Street's or even her father's.

Hers.

Salted—_was that the right term?—_with some advice that Booth and Angela had given her years ago.

"I was in foster care," she started, eyeing Bowman's reaction over her salad.

They'd managed to hit a rest stop in West Virginia—one where she could get a salad that managed to look far less wilted than she felt.

Bowman paused, clearly surprised by her admission.

"Why?"

She wove the lie with bits of the truth, certain that Street's suggestion about how to create a story had merit. "My mother died, my father disappeared," she said. "I had no other family to take care of me, so I went into the system."

Part of her wanted to believe that a black SUV with Booth at the helm would appear at any moment and relieve her of playing out more of the lie, but that small part was overwhelmed by her rational self which only wanted to create a lie which would strengthen her connection with Bowman. They'd already dumped the body they'd discovered in that tunnel leading from the bank, and while that certainly should qualify as a major crisis to bond over, she wanted to cement the relationship. She was unwilling to allow anything more than a few hugs or chaste kisses to pass between them.

Words would rescue her even if Booth and the others could not.

"Layla," Bowman said, his hand reaching over the table toward hers, "why are you telling me this?"

Subtlety was not her strong suit and deception was something she had to work at. So she wove the tapestry of her alter ego's life with threads of truth.

"What we did back there was illegal," she said in a whisper. "I don't have anyone. Not really. Artie, well, Artie. . . ." She drew in a deep breath and tried to plunge ahead. "I don't always have the best taste in men."

"I'm not Artie," he said, squeezing her hand slightly. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"I don't know that."

"You've got to. . . ," he paused and tried to grin. "You've got to believe me, believe that I'm not like Artie. I would never hurt you."

"Artie says the same thing. He's not going to hit me again," she toyed with her water glass, "until he does it again."

She waited.

Bowman sketched a slow nod and set his face in a way that she knew he did whenever he wanted to reassure one of the bank customers that the downward turn in interests rates for their CDs or the low rate of return on their Christmas club accounts was simply a reflection of the times and was only temporary.

"There's an old Columbian saying, 'a woman should never be hit, even with a rose petal.'"

She'd heard the expression in Columbia from an old man who had guided her to a mass grave in which men, women and children had been unceremoniously dumped.

The people from the village had watered the path to that gravesite with their tears and grief, not rose petals.

She waited again.

"I won't hurt you, Layla."

She accepted his answer with a single nod and a slight squeeze of her hand. But she knew that had she really been Layla Knowles, Willy Bowman had already hurt her.

oOo

Where they were headed remained a mystery. As was what or who they seemed to be running from.

Certainly she could put the pieces together—the woman they'd found in the tunnel bore striking similarities to Tracy Lord, Booth's contact for the gift cards. Her death and the placement of the body suggested that the killer knew about Bowman's tunnel and might have left it as a message for Bowman.

They had only failed to report the body and had dumped it near that drainage tunnel on government land. That had been her suggestion. She knew that when the body was discovered, it would be sent to the Jeffersonian for analysis.

She'd left her own kind of evidence on the body—ring, hair, USB drive. She'd barely had time to leave Booth a voicemail and call in the discovery of the body to the local police before Bowman had returned with rubber gloves, plastic sheeting and duct tape.

The perfect disposal of a body it was not.

"Where are we going?" she asked again.

"I've got to think," Bowman said. "I've just got to think about this."

That had been his answer each time she had asked and she retreated to her side of the car and tried to think through all that she knew about the case.

But her mind kept drawing her backwards in time.

She remembered waving to her parents as they went off to do some Christmas shopping. She remembered the hours stretching past dinner and into their bedtime and finally breaking into doubt and fear. Now she understood that her parents' concern and Russ constantly keeping tabs on her, each of them knowing where she was at all times, had been part of their life underground. Three years in foster care, three years in the system, had erased that connection, made her want to flee any connection to people who seemed more concerned about their monthly checks than that shy, rather awkward teen, who never seemed to fit into whatever new family, whatever new situation, she was placed in.

She had been the puzzle piece that did not fit; the one that could never be turned over or twisted or turned to complete the picture.

Nothing then had worked. Only later, much later, had she been able to create her own picture puzzle, her own world. One in which she fit in and crafted pieces that fit right around her:

Angela. Hodgins. Zack. Cam.

Her brother. Amy and the girls. Her father.

Booth.

Even with the GPS coordinates, they would be worried about her.

She knew how that worry felt, what that worry did to a person. She knew the ache, the uncertainty.

And she knew they needed a few more of the puzzle pieces.

oOo

He'd turned the car north, then west and raced away from where they had dumped the body—a location she was sure wouldn't be frequented by foot traffic, but was on government land. Bowman had driven for almost an hour before he had stopped the car at a rest stop, exited and bent over a 50-gallon drum for several minutes. Despite her suggestion to keep the windows down as they sped away from the body, the smell of decomposed flesh still hung about the car.

Leaving the door open, she exited the car and sat at the weathered picnic table at the rest stop. Below her, cars whizzed past on the highway. Watching Bowman clutch the garbage can, she wondered now if he was going to be sick again.

"How can you be so calm?" he asked turning toward her, his skin pale and clammy.

Did she take this moment to tell him who she really was and encourage him to drive to the nearest police station and confess all? Did she let him know that she'd already seen hundreds of victims in her life and she knew how to divorce herself from the horror?

"I used to work in a hospital," she said simply. "I've seen dead people before."

She had tried to make sure that they hadn't compromised the original site and she'd marked the position of the discharged bullet to aid the creation of scenario on Angela's computer.

While she knew she still could not read Bowman as well as she could read Booth or other people in her inner circle, she knew he was at the end of his metaphorical rope. But for some reason, he seemed to change with the words. He took a deep breath and exhaled, nodded slightly, then closed the distance between them. Sliding into the seat beside her, he tentatively took her hand in his.

"Who would put a body under the bank like that?" she asked. "What does it mean?"

Layla had had narrowly defined behaviors in the bank and the few nights she had "snuck out" to have dinner with Bowman. Now, the scripts had to be tossed aside and anything she could do to get Bowman to open up or to stop running seemed acceptable.

"Do you know who that could be?" She was trying to fend off a strong urge to throw off the trappings of Layla Knowles and become Temperance Brennan. But she feared neither woman was safe with Bowman right now. "They sent you a message of some sort, didn't they?"

"What are you saying?" He turned toward her, his eyes wide and beads of sweat glistening along his cheeks.

"Are you involved in something? Did you do something?"

She knew the questions were blunter than Layla would ask, but she was fighting her own sense of panic. She'd activated the app on her phone to broadcast her GPS coordinates to Angela's phone, but she had no idea if it was working or if Booth would make sense of the numbers she had left on his voicemail. So much of it hinged on whether they had found the USB drive she'd hidden on the body and if they had gotten through the low-level protection she'd placed on the files.

"God, Layla," Bowman said, holding her hand tightly and patting it with his other hand, "I didn't think anyone could get hurt in this."

"In what?" Eric Street had rehearsed her in different ways to approach Bowman, different ways to get him to open up to her. Slow and easy, make him want to help you. But although she dealt with slow and easy well, _sometimes_, making Bowman want to help her, anyone want to help her, always rankled. "I'm just as guilty of what, disposing of that body as you. I'm what the police would call an accessory."

"I didn't kill her."

"I know." She pulled her hand free from his and pulled him into a hug. "You are too gentle, too kind to ever kill anyone."

The hug felt uncomfortable and the words a bit sugary, but she had tried to do both with some conviction.

Her eyes wandered over his back and the way the blue shirt had grown darker where it was stained with his sweat and how it disappeared beneath his belt and past the bulge made by the gun he had placed there. Part of her had wanted to scream at him to not touch the gun at the crime scene, and part of her now wanted to snatch it from him.

Releasing him, he still clung to her and she tried to calculate her chances of overpowering him, racing to the car and driving off to find help. She pushed down the flight and fight response and tried a new tack.

_Get him to trust you,_ Street's voice echoed in her mind. _Tell him you trust him; for someone in your position, an abused woman, he might eat it up_.

"Willy, I trust you." She tried to catch his eyes with hers. "What are you involved in?"

He paled and sat back, his back thudding against the table. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, tears welled there. "There's only one person they would hurt," he said softly as if trying out the words. "She always wanted more."

"There's another woman?" She tried to mix in enough hurt in her voice for Layla's question, but she'd already figured out who they'd moved from the tunnel. It was a leap, but one that made sense given everyone involved and the details she had gleaned from Booth's reports.

"I don't know if I should tell you," he said. He swiped at his eyes. "I just wanted to help her, help you." He blew out a breath and the smell of decomp seemed to swirl around her. "I tried to protect her."

"I know."

"And now. . . ?"

"And now we're in this together."

She tried to sound more confident than she felt. They'd been there for 10, no, closer to 15 minutes and each minute meant that Street or her father was narrowing the distance between them. They had to be.

"I can't stay here," he said finally.

"Of course not."

"And you trust me?"

"Yes," she lied.

He tried to smile, but it resembled one of those expressions on a Japanese Noh mask she'd once seen, Mikatsuki, pained and artificial.

oOo

It had been the opening they had been waiting for: Bowman offering to help, her acceptance. It was the break they had wanted and he'd gone one better.

"One night, after work," he said as he led her toward the safety deposit box vault, his voice low and conspiratorial, "we're going to disappear, you and me."

"That's impossible," she replied, but Bowman had smiled, taken her hand, and opened the door with his other. "Artie will find me."

The smell of decomposing flesh hit her the moment the door to the tunnel was opened.

He had tried to pinch his nose against the smell, tried to cover the odor with an explanation, but she recognized it from years of working with the dead. "Sometimes a rat or small critter finds its way down here and dies," he'd said as he led her into the tunnel. "It actually is a good thing. It'll keep people away."

When his flashlight played against the body, his surprise and shock seemed almost palpable. And it had absolutely shattered his boyish confidence.

He'd been reduced to almost incoherent sputterings; she had tried to calm him, tried to take control of the crime scene.

But not as Dr. Temperance Brennan.

When he insisted they had to move the body, she'd sent him off to find duct tape and plastic sheeting, both items in abundance in the bank's workroom since painters were scheduled to come in next week to spruce up the lobby.

It had given her enough time to pull on the latex gloves that she had slipped into her bag by habit and do a cursory examination of the body. Several rats had already gnawed at the body and in the poor light she worried she had missed something vital. She even phoned 911 hoping a police presence and the dead body would be enough leverage to get Bowman to open up about the plan.

Yet, she was not a woman given to false hope.

Police would be dispatched to the bank, but barring an enterprising officer, she doubted they would push the investigation beyond checking around the bank for a body before attributing her call to someone's morbid fascination with crime novels, a prank call or the like.

Fools, yes. But years of working with Booth and the police had given her a more realistic perspective on their response.

This was all new territory. She knew the body would best be left beneath the bank where it could molder for years without discovery. But the files on the USB drive were key to their case and she found the body a useable means of getting the information to her people at the Jeffersonian. She'd stay with Bowman and work on him, try to extract some useful information before finding a way to separate herself from him.

Perhaps he had returned more quickly than she expected, perhaps she had spent too much time securing the USB drive on the body, but she had only a few seconds to leave Booth a voicemail with the code Bowman used to access the door to the tunnel.

oOo

He still gripped the steering wheel with a fierce determination, but she noticed his respiration had returned to an almost imperceptible rhythm. He'd followed a northerly route, driving the car at or slightly below the speed limit in the right hand lane on the highway.

She could practically hear Booth, "You're in the grandma lane."

Booth. He was not far from her thoughts. He would probably be worried about her—certainly Street or her father would have notified him that she was missing.

And he would worry. And blame himself for what she had chosen to do.

The GPS coordinates and the items she'd left behind should tell them in some way that she had chosen this route toward unlocking the case. She hated the thought of putting Booth through this again, Booth and Angela and Max and Hodgins and Cam, but she couldn't quite abandon the case.

Yet, she almost wanted a respite from the constant fear that her wig would blow off or the contacts would become so unbearable in the mini windstorm in the car, that Bowman would realize something was wrong.

She constantly checked her side mirror in the vain hope for a black SUV or Russ' Trans Am, but they seemed to be tailed only by semis and RVs.

But hope she knew all too well simply clouded reality.

She was essentially on her own.

"We're going to need money to live, Willy." She tried his first name, one of those rare times she Bowman looked a little too long in her direction and the car seemed to slow down.

"I don't need much. I've been working most of my life."

"I'm sorry, Layla," Bowman's voice took on that low, soothing tone that reminded her of Booth. "That had to be rough living in foster homes."

"It was." She took a deep breath, not sure if this was the right approach. "Every time I was in between families, I was homeless. That's legally what I was. Homeless. And I hated it. I hated it almost as much as I hated being with a family that didn't even bother to learn my name or treated me like I was in the way."

Bitterness colored her words.

Bowman said nothing, only glancing in her direction.

"I don't have any kind of money, Willy. I can work and I can be a good partner," she said pushing past a wave of emotion that seemed to come out of nowhere and threaten to overwhelm her, "I just don't want to be homeless."

She drew in a deep breath, centering herself, finding a place to stow the emotion while rational thought took over.

She counted the seconds as Bowman said nothing, as the distance between her real self and her pretend self seemed to grow.

"We'll need to stop, Layla," he said finally. "I need to tell you some things."

oOo

Sinking into the chair at the Waffle House, she was grateful that they were no longer moving. And Bowman had slipped toward the bathroom leaving her to herself finally.

There seemed no rhyme nor reason in their "getaway"; Bowman had double backed more than once, talking to himself—arguing with himself, perhaps—before swinging the car around in a wide arc from one exit to the entrance ramp. He'd exited the highway at mile marker 447 some time back and cut across the countryside along two-lane roads before finding his way back onto a highway.

Studying the menu, she wondered if people were tracking the GPS at all—certainly they could call the local police to put a tail on them. Couldn't they?

While the restaurant was crowded enough and Bowman had promised to return, she wondered if this would be a good time to simply slip away.

But she wanted to see this to the end. She'd figured out how Bowman had seeded his gift card fraud; she even had a reasonable hypothesis as to whose body they'd found in the tunnel beneath the bank. Given the people who had to protect his operation from too much scrutiny, she'd already formulated another hypothesis as to who in law enforcement might be providing a smoke screen.

All she needed, really, was for Bowman to take them to his accomplices, for Street or Booth to show up, for this case to wrap.

She really wanted to shed the wig and the constant worry that seemed to weigh on her.

"Hey." She looked up as Bowman slid into the seat opposite her. "Did you order the breakfast special?"

She'd ordered a while ago, but the waitress, somewhat harried and inefficient, had practically slammed down her tea pot and cup, splashed Bowman's coffee onto the table, before mumbling something about their order and taking off toward another table.

He slid a plastic card toward her.

"Keep this with you."

"Why?"

She couldn't keep Temperance Brennan and Layla Knowles completely separate. They'd been on the road for almost 10 hours and she had learned very little as they seemed to weave back and forth, seemingly circling something but never quite finding enough purchase to land.

"It's a card worth several thousand." He smiled a crooked smile and reached out a hand to wrap around hers. "It's a year's salary on one card. More, really. A chance for a new start."

"Willy," she started, the uncertainty weighing heavily upon her, "what is this all about? What the hell is going on?"

So he told her. Or, he really just confirmed what she already knew and filled in a few gaps.

"Why carry cash when all you need is to carry one of these?"

Her father would appreciate the ease with which one could move throughout the world and never quite leave enough behind for someone to know that you had been there. Gift cards pre-loaded with tens, hundreds, thousands of dollars—money stolen from the dead or the dying.

"And that woman?"

His face clouded over.

"She was involved in this, Willy. Wasn't she?

The long, slow nod should have been enough confirmation for Layla, but Temperance needed to know, needed to put together the whole puzzle.

"Her real name isn't important," he said. "Just know that I knew her growing up. We both lived in hellholes. My father and her father. . . ."

She snaked out a hand and put it on his arm.

"Let's just say that I wanted to take her out of that."

"You wanted to rescue her."

Again, he gave her the long, slow nod. "You know that song, 'No Woman, No Cry' by Bob Marley?"

This time she gave him the long, slow nod.

"That was me. Rescuing her from the ghetto. Rescuing her from the pain and the despair."

She couldn't remember anything like that in Tracy Lord's background—in the background of the woman who went by the name of Tracy Lord—but she did not dispute Bowman's story.

"I've got it all figured out," he said, grasping her hands in his. "How to live, how to take what we want and never look back." He grinned. "You'll never have to go back to Artie. I'll take care of you."

She offered him a smile and a nod toward the waitress who picked up their bill and payment.

"Layla," he said as they made their way from the restaurant, "we can really live now."

She listened as he prattled on and waited until they were at the car before she sprang her last question on him.

"If I'm going with you, Willy," she said, "I have to know if there was anyone else involved. Obviously, someone killed that woman in the tunnel and if you say she was helping you, it stands to reason that there's someone out there who is looking for you. Was someone else involved in this scheme of yours?"

That slightly wild look he'd worn when they first saw the corpse returned and she wondered if he was going to be sick again.

"Yeah, but Layla, he's pretty powerful. He's well-connected, if you know what I mean."

She didn't know, but she held back her question and waited.

And was rewarded with a name and her part of the puzzle was complete.

"We should get a motel room for the night," Bowman suggested.

She gave a slight shrug and stole a glance at her purse which had migrated to the back seat during their ride. She retrieved it and shuffled past the other contents looking for her phone.

"If you're looking for your cell phone, Layla," Bowman was saying, "I got rid of it."

"Why?" A wave of panic came unbidden.

"People can locate you with your cell phone, Layla. Artie can locate you." He tsked and gave her the tone of voice he used with all the women in his employ. "You're not going back to Artie."

The panic had subsided. A bit. "What did you do with it?"

He reached out for her and held her arms. "I tossed it out on that one highway. You know, the one with the rest area over the highway?" He gave her that condescending look again. "What wasn't busted when it hit the pavement was obliterated by those big semis. . . ."

She never gave him a chance; she had had enough.

With one full swing of her fist, Temperance Brennan, formerly Layla Knowles, decked Willy Bowman and laid the banker out flat on his ass.


	38. 38 Gimme Shelter

_**Gimme Shelter**_**, The Rolling Stones**

Angela's voice came across the speaker on his cell: "The last known coordinates of Brennan's cell phone place it in the middle of a highway in West Virginia, Booth."

He dropped his phone into his pocket and slammed his fist into the steering wheel. Max cursed.

Nothing was going right.

Somewhere out there, Dr. Temperance Brennan was on the lam as Layla Knowles with a man who robbed old people and their families in order to fund his lifestyle. His one, known accomplice was dead, her body unceremoniously dumped near a drainage tunnel. There was no telling where Brennan was or if she was hurt or. . . .

His phone vibrated and he dove his hand into his pocket to retrieve it.

"Booth?"

The voice, one he'd heard regularly for the seven years of their partnership, held more than a hint of concern.

"Bones?"

"I'm fine, Booth." He heard muted voices, then the distinctive chatter from a police radio in the background. "I've been arrested."

oOo

He glanced at Willy Bowman, blood staining his shirt, an ice pack covering his nose, and then at his partner who was quietly composed, her hands neatly folded over the dark wig in her lap. Without the green contacts that gave her an exotic look, she was his Bones again.

Max Keenan had stepped outside—_Booth was convinced that the man had a healthy allergy to police stations_—to contact the Jeffersonian faithful and let them know his daughter was alive and well and in handcuffs.

And that little something seemed to run in the Brennan blood, thought Booth.

"How's the hand?" he asked. "Are you sure you don't need some ice? A good lawyer?"

She cast him a look that was a mixture of annoyance and exasperation. _Pure Bones._ "I'd really just like to go home."

He couldn't help grinning.

"Iwouldliketogohometoo," Bowman slurred as he pulled the ice pack from his face. "Datbitchassaultedme."

Bowman's nose looked like it was going in two different directions.

"She's my partner," Booth said, squaring his body in front of the banker, "and once the local police sort this out, it's going to look a bit different." He glanced up. "Isn't that right, Sheriff?"

The Sheriff, a good old boy who knew justice could turn a blind eye when necessary, nodded, barely concealing his own grin. He bent to unlock Brennan's handcuffs. "Seems to me that you've got the gun, you've got the car keys, you've got the weight and height advantage on this pretty little thing." He made a slight nod toward Brennan. "Besides," he straightened as he spoke, "a federal officer comes in and tells me you are prime number one suspect in a fraud case that might reach into the millions. . . ."

"Tens of millions," Brennan corrected.

"Tens of millions of dollars, and that money was stolen from the bank accounts of the dead," the Sheriff stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Booth. "Why my own poor grandmother would turn over in her grave if I did not fully cooperate in the investigation into this matter."

"And I've got the federal prosecutor working on additional charges," Booth added. "Concealing a death, failure to report. . . ."

"You're looking at 20 years for each count of fraud alone," interrupted the Sheriff.

"What's the number of accounts he emptied, Bones?"

"Over seventy," she offered. "But that's just an estimate."

"Just an estimate," Booth repeated.

"Awrightarwright," Bowman muttered. "Butkeepdatbitchawayfromme."

"That _what_?" asked the Sheriff as he closed the distance between himself and Bowman. "The only thing this young woman did was stop your sorry ass from taking off and defrauding even more people of their hard-earned money."

The banker shrank into himself, defeated, and the Sheriff only nodded.

"Uh, huh," he said. "She was protecting herself from being forced to follow you over hell and dale and beyond. Besides," he added casting a grin toward Brennan, "some women get mighty attached to their cell phones."

oOo

Booth glanced at the rearview mirror and caught sight of Max Brennan curled on the seat, his head resting on his neatly folded coat.

Brennan had taken up her regular perch in the SUV, but her head was resting on the headrest and her eyes had been closed for some time.

Cracking his window, he let the cool night air revive him.

"We could stop at a motel, Booth."

"Bones!" He made a show of glancing back at her father softly snoring in the backseat and tried to exaggerate his surprise at her suggestion.

In typical Bones' fashion it took her a moment to catch on, but she did and laughed softly. "Oh, you're joshing. That's amusing."

He flashed her a smile.

She'd played it perfectly, insinuating herself into Bowman's confidence until the man opened up.

But by then it was too late for him.

Once she had what they needed, she'd ended the charade and the cross country exodus and. . . somehow she'd ended Bowman's life on the run and gotten herself rescued in one well-aimed blow.

He couldn't help grinning.

And while he liked Max's suggestion that they return to the Waffle House and leave a large tip for the waitress who had called in Brennan's assault on Bowman, he liked the idea of getting her home much better.

"That sheriff liked that we left Bowman with him," she murmured. "He liked being a small fish in a big pond."

"Big fish in a small pond, Bones." He caught her eye. "I thought we lost you."

One moment the air between them was light and airy, and the next? He'd aired his own fear and he saw her expression darken.

"I know what it's like to worry, Booth." 

He knew there was an apology in there.

They had only a few more miles until home and he wanted to chase away the old worries. "Sweets said it was possible that you'd succumbed to Stockholm syndrome, Bones. Decided to take up sides with your captor."

The inverted V between her brows deepened and her scowl was classic. "That's highly improbable, Booth. It would be highly irrational for me to. . . ."

Somehow her voice, indignant and preachy, was all he needed to keep him wide awake as they made their way back home.

oOo

They'd barely managed to stumble into her apartment, Max mumbling a goodnight and sketching a wave before slipping into the guest room while he and Brennan steered each other into her bedroom. Once inside, he stripped down to his boxers and crawled into bed.

She soon followed and he wrapped his arms around her. "I thought I lost you," he murmured again.

And he fell asleep to her lips on his shoulder, and the warmth of her in his arms.

oOo

When he awoke a few hours later, it was as if his mind had simply been on pause.

A quick glance at Brennan, a small shift of his body, and he re-established the connection that had been lost sometime during the night.

Willy Bowman's arrest did not close the case. No, not by a long shot. Bowman had grumbled and groaned, but between the Sheriff and himself and Brennan's increasingly damning evidence, the banker had almost conceded defeat. The Sheriff, a deceptively cunning man, had helped convince Bowman that lock-up at his jail was preferable—especially since someone was out there killing the people involved in the fraud.

Mark Fletcher was dead.

Eric Street had discovered the body when he'd followed the path that Bowman had been on before the banker had veered off. The director had been bobbing in a hot tub, a neat .22 hole in his skull, the blood giving the burbling water a pink tinge.

"Your Dr. Saroyan estimates the time of death to be a day after that of Tracy Lord." Eric Street was now making a habit of calling everyone from the lab, everyone on his team, _your_.

It was not-too-subtle, but Street was turning the case back over to him. And he was letting go of Brennan.

"Take care of your Dr. Brennan," he'd said last night as they exchanged updates. "She's something else."

And that was that.

Or it should have been. 

Courier and seller of cards, dead. Law enforcement official who protected scheme and schemer, dead. Schemer, cooker of books, arrested.

But who killed the courier and the cop?

Not the schemer.

Bowman was shaken—_visibly shaken_—when told that Mark Fletcher was dead. Cam was going to run DNA and fingerprints off the gun he had had on him at the time of his arrest, but Booth's gut told him that it wasn't in Bowman to kill Tracy.

No. Someone was cleaning up the loose ends, taking out the players.

And someone else had stirred, turned toward him and was using her hands to stimulate more than thought.

So he gave little more thought to the case, putting that on pause again, while his lips and hands and body gave its full attention to the woman in bed beside him.

oOo

"What about your cop? That fellow in Philadelphia?"

Max Keenan might have made a good cop himself, thought Booth. _Well, before that life of crime thing._

"Matt Harding," Booth supplied. "Bar fight out west." He sipped at his second cup of coffee that morning. "Dead."

The players in this card game had short life expectancies, Booth thought. Much too short.

Max scowled and sat back on the chair. "Bowman's not given you any other names?"

"Only Fletcher." He shook his head. "Street was delayed picking up Bones because he caught an FBI agent planting a bomb on the Trans Am." He saw the look on Max's face and was glad it had been Street who had caught the man and not Max. Bones might never have seen her father again. "Street made him. One of Fletcher's men. Arrested him—he's still in custody." Hog-tied him and locked him in the trunk before driving him into the FBI auto impound. "The car's entered into evidence—Russ isn't likely to see it for a while."

Had Max Keenan been anyone else, Booth might have dismissed the look on his face. Hard. He'd seen the same look on other men: men who were preparing to take a life.

"Bowman only dealt with Fletcher," Max said. "There's no telling who Fletcher included in the scheme to keep the money rolling in."

Booth had already conceded that fact—Fletcher had used at least one FBI agent to help cover the scheme and had traded on his connections with other law enforcement types to protect his little treasure chest from prying eyes. Who else was involved was anyone's guess at this point.

Max maintained that hard look, the look that Booth understood to reveal the true nature of the man. "You know, Booth," Max was saying, "you and Tempe have targets on your backs."

oOo

That thought had occurred to him as he walked into Silverman's conference room to find the atmosphere grim. Federal Prosecutors Caroline Julian and G. Anthony Franzcwa III sat across from each other while Eric Street stood, leaning against a table along the wall. Each wore a somber expression.

"The tally sheets don't add up quite yet,' Caroline said. "We've got more dead bodies than evidence on this fraud investigation."

It wasn't his first concern, not by any means. He caught Street's eyes and saw a question there.

"All we've got is the bank manager who apparently initiated the plan," Franzcwa was adding. The prosecutor tapped the table with his finger. "He'd be smart to keep quiet. We've got precious little."

"Cards that are virtually untraceable," Caroline said. "For all we know, Franzcwa's walking around with a stack of those cards in his pocket."

Booth heard the tension in her voice, the undeniable frustration.

He'd had his own frustrations with the case, seen how it had left other agents stymied. He'd done his homework, interviewed the other agents who had taken the case and then discarded it or been reassigned.

It was just like the Remington mansion in California that Parker had been talking about—doorways that go nowhere, staircases leading to walls, windows that never provided a view.

Fletcher might have protected the banker, headed off trouble before it began, but he'd been wrong to think that greed of one of his underlings wouldn't become a factor in the case.

Dead wrong.

Silverman strode into the conference room, his smile in sharp contrast to the mood of the room.

"The marshalls are moving Bowman to a safe house," Silverman said as he took his place at the head of the table. "And the man's talking."

"So, Dr. Brennan's evidence and a reading of the charges to be leveled against him has Willy Bowman opening up like a mall on Black Friday?" Caroline visibly relaxed. "Good, cherie. It's about time we got a real break in this case."

"It's a bit like Christmas morning, today," Silverman said. "Or Hannukah, if you'd rather. A few lumps of coal meted out for the bad little boys and," he leaned forward toward Booth, "a few special gifts."

"So it's basically mopping up, eh?" asked Franzcwa. His expression hadn't really changed to match Silverman's news.

Silverman's mood grew more expansive. "He's just laying out how it worked and such, but he really knows more about Fletcher's end than one might suspect. We've already had a few surprises." He grew more serious. "Fletcher's death and our crooked FBI agent are going to look bad for the bureau, but the upside is that we've put a stop to the scheme. We're also recovering quite a bit of the money."

He gave a slight nod to Booth. "Bowman and Tracy Lord were conservative about how they spent the money. Fletcher had safety deposit boxes filled with the cards."

"So," Street ventured, "it's over?"

Silverman practically beamed. "Just as Mr. Franzcwa said, it's just a matter of mopping up."

oOo 

Nothing was as simple as it seemed, thought Booth. Nothing.

He watched from the railings on the other side of the platform as Brennan was explaining the markers on an X-ray to Wendell, the young man's attention never veered from the black and white images projected on the large monitor. He made one final nod before turning from his adviser, taking up the left femur, and heading from the platform toward the bone room. Brennan switched off the monitor and directed one of the techs on the platform to do something with the left ulna. That bone, too, seemed headed toward the bone room as the young tech disappeared from the platform.

"So, this is the Jeffersonian?"

Booth turned. Silverman stood at the bottom of the stairs, Eric Street at his side.

"Thought I'd beard the lion in the den, as it were."

Street's slight head bob drew his eyes back toward Brennan who had stopped her work to take in the visitors.

"There's a leak."

oOo

The lounge high above the platform of the Jefferson Medico Legal Lab was always warmer than the floor below. The skylights afforded extra warmth in the winter and made the heat in the summer sunlight barely tolerable at times. Even today, with the clouds obscuring the sunlight, the area was warmer than the platform below.

A bit too warm.

"Thank you," Silverman said as Booth handed him a cup. "I understand the coffee here is far better than the swill we drink at the bureau."

Booth sat next to Brennan and took in the assistant director's movements. Cam sat to Brennan's left, perched at the edge of the cushion as if she were going to spring into action at the first sign of trouble.

Neither Silverman nor Street had given any indication of the latest roadblock in the case.

Until now.

"My little act in my office earlier was to mollify our prosecutor friends," Silverman began. "To take the focus off you and Dr. Brennan."

"I don't understand," Brennan said.

"Someone's out there killing off anyone involved in the case," Cam said, her voice catching at the end, "that's pretty easy to understand, Dr. Brennan."

Bones shifted. "No, I mean that I don't understand why you felt it necessary to put on an act for Caroline Julian and Mr. Franzcwa." She paused. "Unless they're suspects."

Silverman blinked a few times then looked to Street who was studying the tops of his shoes. As if on cue, the agent began his part of the story.

"That agent I caught with his fingerprints all over your brother's car? The guy who planted the bomb? Layton? He's talking. Pointed out a few avenues that we hadn't suspected including a blind eye turned toward some legal issues." He looked up. "The federal prosecutor's office is implicated. We're still checking the details, but our list of suspects has grown and includes G. Anthony Franzcwa and Caroline Julian."

oOo

He'd remained upstairs in the lounge after the meeting, after Silverman had updated him on the case, after Street had outlined security measures. And even though the meeting was meant to show them the layer of protection covering Brennan and himself, it felt as if he was laid out naked in the middle of Constitution Avenue.

He couldn't believe it. Franzcwa was old money. He'd built his career ferreting out corruption. And Caroline?

He didn't believe it; he wouldn't believe it.

"Booth?"

The others had filed away back to work, and for that he had been grateful. But he wasn't ready for any of them.

"Booth?"

He finally turned toward the voice and said the only thing he could.

"She didn't have anything to do with this."

And Bones, being Bones, could say the only thing she could. "You don't know that, Booth."

"I know Caroline, Bones." His voice rose, but he didn't care if everyone in the place heard him. "She risked her job to free an innocent man, a man your father had evidence on. And he sat on the evidence for years and when Caroline got the evidence, she didn't hesitate. Not Caroline. And what about you? She flew all the way down to New Orleans to be your defense attorney, for you, a woman who you couldn't even bother to remember her name because she wasn't a bone you could examine."

He'd seen the expression on Brennan's face before and he knew he should stop, but his anger and frustration propelled him forward.

"All your shiny machines and scientific hoo-ha can't measure the character of a person. You can't put it in a beaker, or study it under one of your microscopes, or X-ray it. It can't be broken down into atomic particles or DNA. The character of a person is something you feel."

"Time after time she has stood up for what is right. She hasn't hesitated to help you and your family and if anything, Bones, you owe her. You, of all people, Bones, ought to know that Caroline Julian is one of the good guys. She's as honest as the day is long."

"You can't rely solely on your gut, Booth."

"She drives a heap, for God's sake." He practically shouted at her. "A piece of nothing car." He took a breath. "No federal prosecutor on the take drives a death trap held together by paint and a prayer. It's a mistake. Caroline would not cover up a fraud like this leaving dead bodies all over the place. I don't believe it."

"What other evidence do you have?"

If it had been anyone else, she might have lashed back or stormed off. But she had taken his barrage of words and provided the best comeback.

"What?"

She stood opposite from him, her arms crossed, her face a mask since the crack about not remembering Caroline's name. But she wasn't flinching.

"Evidence, Booth. Evidence." She cocked her head. "It's what we do. We investigate murders. And frauds, it seems. Caroline would not allow anyone of us to go into court without enough evidence to convict."

He paused. "Air tight, she says. Everything except the last period in place." Caroline would have scoffed at his outburst.

And Bones had simply taken it.

"Look, Bones. . . ," he said, starting toward her.

But she retreated. "We've got two bodies, two murders to solve." Her posture became a bit more rigid. "Cam wanted you to know that the bullet I dug out from the tunnel where Tracy Lord was killed and the bullet she retrieved from Mark Fletcher came from the same gun."

"Meaning we have one shooter."

She nodded. "More than likely." Her eyes looked bluer than usual in the light streaming in from the glass above. "She also said that the bullets were placed at similar locations severing the C-4 on each person."

"Makes it a professional, someone with training."

She assented and he studied her. Why was it they could still take one step forward and two steps backward?

"Director Silverman said that they are looking into the financial records of everyone on the prosecutor's office who might have had dealings with Fletcher or Bowman," she was saying. "It is perfectly logical to follow the trail of evidence to the federal prosecutor's office, Booth. Looking at and assessing the evidence it is not the same as proof."

She hadn't changed her stance—ramrod straight with her arms crossed in front. But her tone had softened.

"We should investigate who killed Tracy Lord and Mark Fletcher," he offered, his own tone matching hers. "That could lead us to the shooter. . . ."

". . . Which could lead us to the person behind the fraud," she countered. "Besides Bowman."

He knew that look, too.

"I don't want to believe that Caroline had anything to do with the fraud," she said, "but it is irrational to speculate."

"I wouldn't argue with her," came a voice just behind him.

He turned on his heel. "Street?"

The younger man eyed them both. "She's a genius, Booth. Remember?" He took a step closer. "But hell, you don't have to be a genius to figure out that anyone could be in on this right now. Fletcher could have brought anyone in—you don't get rich on a cop's salary. And you don't know how many people owed the guy a favor or two or the people he owed. A few thousand dollars buys instant karma."

"That's not strictly. . . ," Brennan started.

"Metaphor, Dr. Brennan. Metaphor." Street crossed his arms and shook his head. "Bowman's safely stowed away, Layton's not going anywhere, and Silverman is willing to lie through his teeth to make sure that the two of you stay alive long enough to wrap this damn thing."

Street's look at Brennan tied a knot in Booth's gut.

"Thanks for the pep talk, Street."

The look lingered a second too long for Booth. "Didn't come here for a pep rally, Booth." He cocked his head and nodded toward the main floor. "You two have a visitor in Dr. Brennan's office."

oOo

She stood up from the couch as they entered the office and immediately met them near Brennan's desk. He often thought of her as the Rock of Gibraltar—constant, immoveable and just as tough. And if he ever got chance to see that rock formation, he had little doubt it wouldn't stand a chance in a fair fight with her.

"Seeley Booth? Dr. Brennan? Why are you both at the lab when you should be out there figuring out who killed your mystery woman and another crooked FBI boss?"

It took him seconds longer to respond than Brennan, who seemed just as unmoved by Caroline Julian's surprise visit as she had been by his outburst upstairs.

"We're trying to determine our course of action given what we know so far," Brennan said.

"Which is squint speak for we still don't have anything of substance," Caroline countered.

Brennan, who had remained unbowed by his earlier anger, seemed taken aback by Caroline's sarcasm.

"What are you doing here, Caroline?" he finally managed.

"Oh, you thought I should be cowering in my office because my financial records are being examined under a microscope by several government agencies?" The Rock of Caroline seemed more annoyed than worried. "You think I would come here, begging gimme shelter? I'm so sorry for taking thousands of dollars in ill-gotten gain and I won't do it again?"

"Caroline?"

She barely moved. "You have a job to do, Seeley Booth. Both of you do." Her voice, the stuff of granite, crumbled a bit. "I know Silverman's speech was full of moonbeams and fairy dust. You two still have some work to do here in the real world."

"We know Tracy Lord and Mark Fletcher's killer is a professional," Brennan offered.

Caroline's eyes met Brennan's and lingered as both women seemed to pass some kind of understanding between them. Caroline then turned to him.

"Good looks and youth aren't going to keep you safe out there," Caroline said. "Use those genius brains you've got here and some good old fashioned common sense while you're at it, cherie."

She began to walk away, but pivoted toward them, just inside the glass door of the office. "And remember, I do not look good in an orange jumpsuit, cherie," she threw back at them before turning and making her way out of the lab.


	39. That'll be the day

_**That'll Be the Day**_**, Buddy Holly and the Crickets**

Once upon a time, if she really believed in the fairy tales she was once told, Temperance Brennan would never find her Prince Charming, never fall in love, never live happily ever after.

But Temperance Brennan was, at heart, a woman. And her heart, a strong, quite reliable muscle, had been metaphorically claimed by one tall, ruggedly hot FBI agent with broad shoulders and a crooked smile.

That much, to Angela, was obvious.

But even more obvious to her was just how smitten Temperance Brennan was with her Prince Charming.

The lines had been crossed, the evil interlopers all sent packing, and somehow it should all work out that after the childhoods both endured, after all the murderers they'd caught, after all the trauma they'd faced that some how, some way they would have their happily ever after.

But it just didn't work that way.

Instead of riding off into the sunset or—_had she had any say in the matter_—spending the last two days and nights in bed, the two had been holed up in Brennan's office pouring over records trying to untangle the mess of the fraud case which had crossed over into an equally messy multiple homicide case.

It just didn't seem fair.

Not by a damn sight.

Standing in the doorway of Brennan's office, Angela couldn't help but feel powerless to help them. She'd set the Angelatron into overdrive looking for links between various records—financial, phone and case files—but she had only narrowed the field to a slightly more than six dozen agents with connections to Mark Fletcher. Factor in Tracy Lord, Agent Layton and anything else they could think of and the number dropped to slightly fewer than three dozen.

It just didn't seem fair.

Then try to narrow that number down some more, or look for more than just a papery thin connection and. . . well, it was frustrating. Scratch that. It was _damned_ frustrating.

"Bren?"

Her friend was alone in the office, open take-out containers covering one table while file folders littered another. The air exchange in the Jeffersonian was state-of-the-art, and the aroma of the spicy Thai food had long since dispersed. Yet, the air seemed stale, close. Brennan was bent over one file folder and barely acknowledged her as she strode toward the couch.

"Hey Sweetie, how about taking a break?"

She knew the mere suggestion usually had little effect on her friend. Brennan was stubborn—or if one wanted to be kind, _focused_—and obsessed—or in friend talk, _passionate_—about her work. These qualities usually brought results, but the only thing her work ethic had generated of late was eyestrain and a back shaped like a question mark.

"It's here, Angela. It's somewhere in here."

Angela smiled.

"Now you're sounding like Booth."

It was enough to straighten Brennan's back into something closer to an exclamation point.

"Speculative? Optimistic?"

"Versus rational and pragmatic?" Angela slid onto the couch next to Brennan and took in her pale features. The anthropologist had been at it for hours and looked worn from the effort. "Wouldn't a very rational person concede that the paper trail between suspects might not exist? Especially if these are law enforcement officers? They'd be smarter than to leave a trail."

Brennan had made the suggestion earlier, well, two days ago, and it had resulted in the partners bickering over the possibility in which Booth had taken the position that someone had to have made a mistake along the way and left something behind to implicate him.

"No bread crumbs?"

Brennan closed her eyes, shook her head and leaned back against the couch.

For her friend to let the allusion go with no comment worried Angela.

"My couch is available. Lock the door, turn off the lights and. . . ."

"Booth's in there taking a nap," Brennan interrupted.

"Exactly."

The thin line of her lips curled ever so slightly. Brennan's eyes fluttered open and there was just that hint of a moment when

Angela thought her friend might just do it, she might just give in and take her up on the suggestion.

"It might not seem like it, but it's fairly comfortable," Angela went on, "although Booth's taller and bigger than Jack."

And the window of possibilities closed. "Don't tell Booth that you and Hodgins use that couch," Brennan said as she stood up stiffly

"It'll give him performance anxiety?" Angela couldn't resist teasing.

"No," said Brennan. "It'll freak him out."

Angela couldn't help but laugh at that image—hunky Booth becoming manic about sharing the couch that she and Hodgins had shared and shared and shared.

"You still need a break, Bren."

Her friend sighed and nodded tiredly. "Fletcher lectured at Quantico about fraud surveillance techniques which increases our suspect pool by dozens not to mention the number of field agents he's come in contact with in various parts of the country. Our pool could be hundreds of people." Frustration edged her voice. "He's also got contacts with law enforcement in several cities he's worked in over the past ten years."

Two days of searching and they seemed to end up at the same starting point.

"Just walk away from this for a while, okay? You're spinning your wheels and getting no where fast."

The hint of understanding came a second slower than what she might expect and her friend nodded slowly. "You're right, Ange, I need to take a break from this."

The admission was, in itself, somewhat of a shock. Angela sat a little straighter on the couch and tried to decipher the change in her friend.

"I'm an excellent researcher," Brennan continued. "I see patterns in information, connections between facts. . . but I don't see a clear pattern in these facts that can connect Fletcher to Tracy Lord or to anyone else for that matter."

"Then maybe this is the wrong place to look," Angela offered.

Brennan looked back toward the coffee table that practically groaned under the weight of papers scattered over it. Angela had spent enough time around Brennan and Hodgins to know that their minds never really took a break. It was the curse of genius to always have that brain in gear, churning away. . . .

No, not a curse, Angela thought. Her own mind had been trained to look, to see possibilities in images, meaning in objects and even though she didn't fit the definition of genius as practiced by her friend or by her husband, she understood how her own experiences and her own education had shaped her thoughts and how she saw the world.

It was her own kind of genius to see the possibilities in each image.

"Sweetie, let's. . . ."

"The bones."

"What?"

Brennan had turned toward her desk and was sifting through the pile of file folders there until she located one and flipped it open. "Tracy Lord's bones showed a slight. . . . Wendell? Is Wendell here this week?"

"Showed a slight what?" Angela asked a retreating Brennan.

But that was the thing with geniuses, Angela thought as Brennan left the office in search of her intern. Their brains just moved too quickly to keep up with them.

oOo

"The FBI just sent over the medical examiner's report and you're right," Cam said as her high heels announced her entry into the bone room, "there's traces of that same drug in Fletcher's system as in Lord's."

The renewed interest in the bones had made them re-examine the toxicology report on what was left of Tracy Lord's flesh which had taken them back to Mark Fletcher whose own remains were only now just yielding up its secrets.

The thing about geniuses, Angela knew from experience, they had a way of finding answers.

"So is anybody going to tell me what it all means?"

While it was her question, all eyes were on Dr. Brennan.

"It'll give us another way to narrow down our search parameters," she said. "If I'm right."

Hodgins strode in as if on cue, and confirmed their new direction.

"You are right, Dr. B." He held a clipboard, but it was just for show. Genuises were like that. "That small groove on Tracy Lord's bone yielded up metal particulates. Particulates that are a match for the kind of stainless steel used in the manufacture of hypodermic needles. Surgical grade stainless steel."

"I should have caught that, Dr. Brennan," Wendell mumbled.

"Yes," Brennan said, her focus on the monitor to her right.

Okay, so geniuses could be a bit blunt, Angela thought.

"Our shooter used his left hand for the needle, to inject the. . . ," Angela paused.

Cam supplied the name of the drug.

". . .And probably used his right hand to hold the gun to shoot."

Cam let out a breath. "So we're looking for someone who is ambidextrous?"

"Perhaps," said Brennan, "and possibly someone with medical training. Our shooter more than likely knew where to inject the nerve agent to maximize its effects."

"He couldn't have just, I don't know, switched hands?" Angela cradled the remote in hand.

"The drug has a short window of effectiveness, a matter of seconds."

"Why even use it?"

"To ensure the kill," said Booth. "A clean kill."

They all looked toward him. He stood just inside the door, his approach unnoticed by them. He'd spent at least 4 hours on Angela's couch sleeping and while he looked a bit groggy still, a little like a kid just waking up, his mind was remarkably alert.

"So we're looking at what," said Hodgins, "Special Ops training? Black Ops?"

"No," said Booth. Angela couldn't help notice the exchange between the partners. "Special Ops are taught to kill with one quick snap of the neck, or slit to the throat. Someone needed that extra time to kill."

"Should we look into the suppliers of the drug?" Wendell was looking to make his own contribution. "Maybe they've got records of who purchased it."

That stopped them.

"That would be a great idea, my man," Hodgins supplied, "except it's easily derived from a common household plant."

Hodgins clapped Wendell on the back and grinned. "Better luck next time, buddy," he said before sweeping out of the room with clipboard in hand.

"Good work, Mr. Bray," Brennan offered.

"It wasn't good work, Dr. Brennan." Angela had started her own trek to her office on Cam's heels, but turned back as Wendell began his explanation. "I missed the significance of that groove in the bone."

"Yes, you did, as I stated earlier, Mr. Bray." Wendell looked like someone had just kicked his puppy.

"But so did I," she said finally. Wendell started to lose the wounded look. "When I pointed out the groove to you, you found a corresponding entry wound in the flesh on our second victim. And you found this in the photograph since we do not have access to the remains."

"That, Mr. Bray, constitutes good work."

"You could have found that entry point, Dr. Brennan," he protested. "That'll be the day when you miss something like that."

"But I did not," she said. "Along with your subsequent analysis of the angle of entry of the hypodermic needle and the comparison to the groove in our first victim, proved invaluable to Ms. Montenegro's recreation of both sets of attacks." She seemed to be studying him.

"What we do in the lab, Mr. Bray, is a team effort. When one team member falters or makes a mistake, it can affect everyone on the team. Conversely, when a team member provides a valuable clue, it can re-invigorate the investigation."

As if to punctuate her conclusion, Brennan snapped off her gloves and made her way from the bone room leaving him a bit stunned in her wake.

oOo

At times she felt like she was the fairy godmother, offering Cinderella trinkets to accessorize her love life, turning pumpkins into coaches and mice into horses to transport her lovely off to the ball.

While she dared hoped for the X-rated Disney version of happily ever after for herself and her friend, she knew all-too-well the Grimm's version of the tale.

The real world trumped the fictional world every time and could just about kill romance.

"You know, Brennan," she said, her hand on her hip, "even the Curies took time to celebrate the discovery of radium or neutronium or whatever it was."

But if they were anything like Booth and Brennan, they simply went back to work.

Which is why Madame Curie died of some kind of poisoning.

"You know that, Sweetie, don't you?"

Brennan gave her the look that told her she missed something. "Madame Curie died of aplastic anemia due to the effects of ionizing radiation." She continued to organize the file folders on her coffee table. "Bones don't give off. . . ."

"No, Brennan, I mean that you should take Booth home and forget about death and murders and this whole fraud business for the evening."

"Ange. . . ."

"When was the last time the two of you did the horizontal mambo?"

If the look on Brennan's face was any indication, it had been too long.

"It proves my point."

"It only proves that I don't know what you're talking about." She was on pause, one arm cradling a pile of folders. "If you are referring to sex with Booth. . . ."

"Oh, hey, hold on there. . . ."

The man in question held up both hands as if to stop the conversation. He'd donned his leather jacket and with his hair slightly mussed from sleeping, it gave him an incredibly sexy vibe that Angela never understood how Brennan could resist. He strode into Brennan's office, a look of alarm at what the two of them could be brewing.

"You don't need to be talking about that, _here_ of all places."

She felt almost like giggling. The tall, strapping man wanted to quash any talk of sex. "So maybe the two of you should be doing it," she countered, "at one of your places rather than burning the midnight oil here."

The look exchanged between the two was anything but smoldering.

"All right," she said, throwing up her hands, giving in to two of the most stubborn people she knew, "I still think the two of you need a break."

She turned back toward Brennan who had placed the file folders into a cardboard box. "A break—as in take the night off, get naked, roll around in a pile of those folders rather than. . . ."

"This sounds interesting!"

Her own husband had just stepped into the middle of her recommendation. One glance toward Booth told the story: his discomfort level went even higher.

"Ange, I was just wondering if you were ready to go." She wanted to laugh as Jack turned toward Brennan then Booth and then back at her. "Home. No file folders. Maybe some rolling around. . . ."

"Could we just drop it?" Booth's voice cut off Hodgins.

Brennan, the perfect straight woman, gave away nothing.

"Promise me that you'll take the night off," Angela insisted. "Take your shoes off, turn off the murder machine and just enjoy one another's company."

She waited for Brennan to quibble about "the murder machine" but her friend said nothing, only looked to Booth who, somewhat exasperated, nodded slightly.

"Ange?" Jack stood expectantly by the door.

She wanted to say something more—hell, that's what fairy godmothers did, right? But neither of her friends were giving more than just an inch and she needed them to take a trip of a mile (or several) far, far away from the lab and work and death.

But Jack was waiting, her retreat from the harsh realities contained within the lab.

"Take the night off," she said again. "Promise me."

"It seems very important to you," Brennan said.

"And to you." She could see a thin crack in Brennan's resolve. "Both of you."

This time she caught the look in Brennan's glance toward Booth and knew she had won.

Or thought she had won.

"It makes no sense, Booth. Why would anyone with Special Ops training need to inject a nerve agent to paralyze their victim? They have more efficient ways of immobilizing someone before shooting them."

Booth shook his head and shrugged. "It doesn't make sense. All the main players are dead, half of their associates are dead or in custody." He exhaled heavily. "Let's face it, we might have already gotten. . . ."

But he couldn't finish his statement because Brennan was rooting around on the papers on her desk.

"What?"

"There's something we're missing, Booth."

"I told _you_ that, Bones." He tilted his head. "Let's face it. We can't prove anything more than Lord is dead as is Fletcher. We don't have enough evidence to arrest anyone else which is probably a good thing. The federal prosecutor's office is cleared only because we don't have any evidence tying anyone to the crime. We're done here, Bones. It's one of those moments in which we're stumped."

Life does have its moments. Some are recorded in pixels or colored dyes or silver nitrates. Most become lost memories, shuffled into the back closets of one's mind and forgotten.

And a few—sometimes a special few—become the things we hold onto just to make it through the bad times.

Angela wanted to savor that moment—one of the few times she could see her friend rise to the idea that maybe, just maybe she didn't have all the answers.

And then he walked in.

"Dr. Brennan?"

Brennan's bag was in hand, but it was almost instantly forgotten.

"You were right about something being off about the bones." Wendell Bray offered a clipboard to Brennan.

Genuises took mere seconds to break connections and to make connections and it took mere milliseconds for happily ever after—_or at least, a night away from the and dead bodies_—to make a U turn.

"Booth? We made a mistake."

"In what?" Booth who had seemed just as happy to be fleeing the lab as Angela was, became sucked back into the enchanted kingdom of the dead.

"Tracy Lord grew up in Pittsburgh."

"So? We traced her to that area. She grew up there, moved away, changed her name and Mark Fletcher probably killed her or had her killed."

"No. The isotope analysis places the victim in Wisconsin, the Madison area."

Even Angela, veteran of so many a-ha moments in the lab, even she knew the significance of Brennan's find.

"We misidentified the victim," Brennan said. "That is not Tracy Lord."

Booth leaned back against the edge of the couch. "So Tracy Lord is still out there someplace."

"She'd have every reason to immobilize her victims before she shot them," offered Wendell.

Booth placed his hand on Wendell's shoulder. "Tracy Lord could very well be our murderer."


	40. Dancing in the Streets

_Dancing in the Street_, Martha and the Vandellas

_Happiness is contagious._

He stared at the bumper sticker on the van in front of him and wondered if he'd somehow been cursed. There was nothing happy about the bumper-to-bumper traffic or the driver to his right who seemed intent on using two lanes instead of one to while away his time on the beltline.

But his partner, who saw the same bumper sticker holding on tenaciously to the wreck of a vehicle in front of them, had a different take on it altogether. "Scientists have determined that certain pheromones are released into the air. . . ."

He half-listened to the explanation from his partner, something about how things were in the air around happy people and that made more happy people and more happy people made more. . . .

"And pretty soon they'll be dancing in the street," he remarked, his voice definitely keen with sarcasm.

Her exasperated sigh told him he'd touched a nerve and he immediately wished he could lose his sour mood. She'd done nothing to deserve the snarkiness.

"I'm sorry," he offered, but the look in her eyes told him he'd trespassed too far.

But she remained silent and in that silence the inside of the SUV grew gloomier.

He figured the silence would definitely follow them inside to her apartment, and he knew he should apologize further, but he couldn't think of what to say.

Or do.

They were past the point in which she would simply suggest that he go his way for the evening and she go hers. She'd put up with his moodiness all week and he'd put up with her silent looks and pointed comments. Neither of them could figure out a way out of the funk that seemed to be suffocating them. And neither one of them was willing to go it alone for an evening.

It was the curse of being a couple that pissy moods came with the territory. His was the worst, really, fueled by all the loose ends in the damned fraud case. The biggest loose end of all, Tracy Lord or whatever the hell her name was at the moment, was dangling in the wind taunting him.

And all the "I'm sorries" in the world wouldn't make it right.

oOo

All cops have them.

That file folder at the bottom drawer of the desk with his copies of the file. His notes. Notes on his notes. Lists of suspects. Possibilities scrawled on torn napkins or scraps of paper. Doodles with graphic maps tying names to crimes to more connections to question marks.

The question marks were what kept a cop up at night, sifting and re-sifting through the evidence in his mind with the hope that the hundredth trip through the information would bring up something.

Anything.

He thought he had had his case. Young, gifted singer left to molder in some evidence cold storage locker while her killer walked free.

He'd been desperate, unwilling to let her go. In that unwillingness was an epiphany of sorts. So he'd let go of his pride, his desire to go it alone, and taken a chance on a forensic anthropologist with the unlikeliest of names, Dr. Temperance Brennan.

Oh, he'd done some research, read the article about how she had solved some 3,000-year-old crime. He'd skimmed other articles, some with her name on them, some with a mention of the work she did, and while he didn't claim to understand more than every other word in some of the articles, he understood that she had an ability to make the bones give up their secrets.

He was prepared and unprepared at the same time. He'd expected some dried up woman with the personality of chalk carrying around a name like Temperance.

What he got instead was a woman who wrote her name onto his own bones, became part of who he was and who he would become and had changed him right down to the marrow.

Dr. Temperance Brennan.

Bones.

He'd wanted her to help him solve the mystery of the case and he'd wanted to unlock the mystery of her and somehow, through stops and starts and miscues and mistakes they'd formed a partnership that had deepened and grown and become something more. Greater.

Family.

So it shouldn't have come to him as some sort of shock that family bore his regret in a case. That family bore the guilt at being unable to solve the puzzle. That family couldn't sleep anymore than he could while a murderer went free.

Because every cop had a case like that.

And even family was drawn in by the vacuum surrounding the truth.

oOo

"Couldn't sleep?"

He had felt the bed shift and groan and knew that she'd made her way to the bathroom with the click of the door and the sliver of light by the floor.

Half drowsy, he'd heard the faint clicks and footfalls disappear into the inky blackness and he'd simply turned back to sleep.

He'd swum in and out of consciousness for a while until finally, his own mind, restless and unwilling to succumb to sleep, had slowly nudged him awake. He'd immediately sensed she wasn't lying next to him, the emptiness of the bed all-too-disquieting.

So he'd tracked her to the kitchen where her laptop sat open, the screen saver making lazy sweeps of colors across the black expanse. She seemed lost in thought, a coffee mug cupped in her hands resting on the table.

"Earth to Bones."

It took her a half second to register his presence on his second attempt to get her attention and he half wondered if that was some sort of record.

"Booth?" She let go of the coffee cup and seemed almost startled. "What time is it?"

"It's still early," he said, suppressing a yawn. "Too early." He covered her hand with his and squeezed gently. "Working on your novel?"

Normally he expected her full attention even when she was deeply engrossed in something, but she still seemed far, far away.

"Mission Control calling." He paused, looking at her profile, waiting for some sign of life. "Bones? You okay?"

This time she flushed and dipped her head away from him. "I find that I cannot sleep."

He snorted as he chortled. "That's pretty obvious, Bones. Why can't you sleep? The book?"

He knew the novels came secondary to everything else in her life. And these days that life had been pretty full, even with Caroline Julian still enmeshed in administrative review along with everyone connected to the Justice Department or the FBI that had anything to do with them, the Jeffersonian or that damnable fraud case. They'd caught one case, a nervous junior prosecutor and mountains of paperwork. She'd managed to help solve the case while pumping out a research article, notes on a 100-page dissertation, and some kind of scholarly article debate that proved something about some bones that someone else had not thought possible.

All the while negotiating the quagmires he seemed to be digging every time he'd opened his mouth.

All in all it had been a pretty miserable two weeks—courtesy of the vanishing act Tracy Lord had managed to pull off.

"There has to be a way to find Tracy Lord," she said.

That was his line—practically a mantra running non-stop in his head. He'd tried to banish it more than once, but it had made him more than a little cranky when he succeeded and more than a little snippy when he didn't.

Yeah, it was a pretty miserable couple of weeks.

"Look, Bones," he tried to catch her eyes, "this is one of those that we're just going to have to let go."

He expected a protest, an argument about how could they let someone go who had murdered at least two people, was responsible for the deaths of others, probably had something to do with him being shot. . . the list went on. Tracy Lord had left a wave of destruction in her wake and they were no closer to finding her then they were to traveling to lowly Pluto for a weekend getaway.

He expected a protest, but there was none.

"You're right," she acceded as she closed her laptop. "We'll just have to let this one go."

oOo

It was anything but a happy ending.

Caroline Julian, newly cleared of all wrongdoing and "more peeved than a long-spined porcupine at a knitting needle factory" had let it slip that "maybe Tracy Lord is smarter than all you eggheads here at the Jeffersonian."

Cam had tried to put out the brush fires, but they seemed to fizzle and die quickly enough—Hodgins had become indignant, but Bones had been more analytical. "There is nothing in the profile that Sweets had provided based on Booth's observations of Tracy Lord's behavior to suggest her level of intelligence is any greater than my own."

But when Caroline was peeved, they all were.

"Maybe we just got beaten on this one, Seeley," Cam had said one evening at the Founding Fathers after they had finished the latest case and sent their junior prosecutor practically galloping toward court when they were done. Cam was chasing her beer with whiskey shots and her voice was resigned and tired. Herding cats had apparently been particularly trying that week.

It was only when she was into her third chaser that he saw how even she didn't like to lose. "I tell you Seeley," she had said leaning into the confidence with a conspiratorial whisper, "there are just some people who shouldn't get away with it. Because from my end," she said, her voice clear and true despite the liquor, "it's pretty hard to live with."

Living with it—well, that's all they really had. The fallout had been messy. Investigators seemed entrenched in Fletcher's office and more than once a week someone investigating the whole sordid mess would come down to his office to announce another resignation, another firing, another indictment.

Another life wasted because of greed.

oOo

He'd managed an entire weekend with his two favorite people despite a looming deadline for Bones and a tingling in his gut that was either the fish he'd downed at lunch the day before or something he'd left unfinished.

Despite it all he had taken Parker to the park to toss around a Frisbee—partly to tire out his son, and partly to give Bones a chance to finish the chapter without a Booth to break her concentration.

Since the night he'd woken to find her gone from his bed, they had been kinder, gentler with each other, the anger stowed away and reserved for the people who deserved it. Brennan had hung in and hung out with them most of the weekend, but he had given her the break, partly because she hadn't asked for it and partly because he could tell she needed it.

She'd been patient with Parker, gamely answering questions that seemed as rapid fire as machine gun blasts. She'd been patient with him, putting aside her novel and notes to help entertain his son.

Hank was right—she was a keeper.

He'd known that once they had crossed that damned line and swept away all the crap standing in their way that something kind of magical would take place. Oh, not that Bones believed in magic, but he did.

What they had was magic.

"Dad?"

Parker was standing at the water fountain, filling the underside of the Frisbee with water. "Watch."

His son never ceased to amaze him. Parker balanced the Frisbee between his hands and bent to the ground presenting the makeshift bowl to a small dog dragging a leash.

The dog ignored Parker and went straight to the water while his son pointed and smiled at the ball of fur.

Booth looked around the park, trying to match owner to dog when he saw her.

She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, her hair was darker, but it looked like her. She was the right height, she had the right moves as she bent forward to look at something in the flower bed near the walkway. Something in the way she held herself, in the way she thrust out her hip as she moved away from him.

He could have sworn it was her.

But he knew it wasn't.

"Dad?" called Parker. "Are you looking?"

Even though the file folder was at the bottom of the drawer of his desk, miles away at the Hoover, _yeah_, he was looking.

oOo

Some cases linger because of the lives broken apart. Some linger because of loose ends.

Some linger because of the what ifs. The maybes. The if onlys.

That was Tracy Lord.

And it pissed him off that she had outsmarted him. _Them_.

He knew he was a good cop, but he was a better cop because of _them_. He had a gang of geniuses who could find answers in slime and bone and blood and he felt somehow that Tracy Lord was thumbing her nose at them, taunting them from the sidelines.

It was _that_ kind of a case.

Sweets would come into his office with a profile on someone else and their conversation would invariably steer back to Tracy Lord. While he was grateful he wasn't fending off questions about his relationship with Brennan, he took no pleasure in the diversion.

She'd beaten them, plain and simple.

"She played you all like a one-string banjo," Caroline reminded him one afternoon as he walked into the Jeffersonian, the prosecutor at his side. "Maybe it's a good thing your geniuses got a taste of the real world and lost this one," she said.

Before he could ask why or take back control of the conversation, Hodgins came up to them, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "You got a moment?"

He gave in, gave up and followed the entomologist toward his bug lair, half-listening as the man rambled on about re-visiting evidence.

"And I got to thinking that since we didn't supervise the retrieval of the remains. . . ."

"You want to hit fast forward, Hodgins?" He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't resist trying to move the glacially slow process along. "Just hit the highlights."

Hodgins stopped and gave him another of those grins.

"I know where we might be able to find Tracy Lord."

oOo

"You've been working on this case for the last month and half and that's what you know? Where Tracy Lord, Alicia Demming, Olivia Kumquat or whatever the hell her name is _was_? Six weeks ago?"

Caroline was pulling no punches.

"And you expect us to use the finest resources of the FBI to go out there," she waved a finger toward the map they had displayed on the computer monitor, "to see if maybe she might have stuck around so that we could catch up with her? You expect her to have a Welcome Wagon waiting for us?"

Booth cast a look around the room. The gathering of squints was meant to be a pep talk and last minute instructions for the Whitmore trial, but it had turned into, well, he wasn't sure of what it had turned into.

This was their case, too. The one that prodded them awake at midnight and made the early morning hours miserable with recriminations and regrets.

"It fits, Booth." Max Keenan jabbed a finger toward the map. "You said she picked the victim through an ad, right?"

"Yeah, Alicia McAllister." The name and the face haunted him in the moments between wakefulness and the oblivion of sleep. "And it dead-ended at a PO box. Fake name and ID used to rent it. No security cameras or witnesses to show who picked it up."

"Frankie Mathison," Max said. "He picked up that girl's response. Delivered it to Tracy Lord."

Booth leaned back against the wall in Angela's office and folded his arms in front of his chest. "How the hell do you know that?"

"Will I have to testify?" Max asked Caroline.

"Or sit in a pretty jail cell if you don't," she countered gruffly. "Orange is not your best color."

Max cast a look toward Brennan and seemed resigned to a life of serving justice if only to placate his daughter. "I made some inquiries about whether anyone in that area might have picked up a package, done someone a favor."

"And how much did that favor cost?" Caroline was almost in full prosecutorial mode.

"Oh, no," he said, throwing his hands in the air. "I didn't pay for the information. Frankie got paid in one of those VISA gift cards. I think it was $250 to pick up the information and deliver it."

Booth felt a sliver of hope unfolding. "And Frankie knows where he delivered that information?"

Max nodded.

"This is where I come in," said Hodgins as he took the remote pad from Angela. "The area that Mathison delivered the ad responses to is near this area," the screen changed to a close-up of the map which included photos of the area. Booth looked at Max who only shrugged. "The soil samples from the victim in the area under the bank are a match." He smiled, warming to his evidence. "The soil samples also match those found on the scene of Fletcher's death."

"So you've placed whoever killed Lord's look-alike and Fletcher to that area near the post office." Booth saw Caroline's mental gears grinding away. "Any chance your Mathison got a good look at that woman he delivered them to?"

Angela smiled. "We've got the card he received as well as a description of the woman."

She took the hand-off of the remote and with a few taps the card and the likeness were superimposed on the middle monitor.

"It fits the profile we have on Tracy Lord." Sweets was taking in all of the evidence presented. "She's a narcissistic personality who thinks she's smarter than all of you." He looked around the room. "Us. She's going to go to ground in the place she best knows because she doesn't think she can be traced there. She's Tracy Lord selling those cards and using Fletcher to protect her, but in her own backyard, she's someone else entirely. She thinks her disguise makes the real her invisible to the rest of the world."

Cam's eyes were dancing. "We know that the neuro-paralytic used on the victims was distilled from a plant not far from where the post office is."

"In fact," Hodgins pointed toward the third monitor. The image of a plant sprang to life on the screen including its Latin name. Hodgins recited the information and looked positively smug. "In small quantities, it can render a person paralyzed for a matter of seconds or minutes depending on the concentration."

"Giving our Mati Hari here the means and motive." Even Caroline was looking a bit pleased with herself.

"But that doesn't mean she's still in the area or that any fingerprints you found on the card match hers." Booth was still the cop, the one who had to connect the dots and deliver the killer to justice. "For all we know, she's long gone."

"Honey?"

Brennan exchanged looks with her father and looked hopefully at Booth. "She's taken on a new name," she said, "although it's not Mata Hari," she added pointedly. "And she's changed her appearance, but I'm fairly certain it's her."

The image of Tracy Lord, scrubbed clean of tattoos and makeup and wearing more modest clothes than Booth remembered, sprang onto the monitor.

It was her.

"Then if you know all that," Caroline offered, "why aren't you off to arrest her, Booth?"

oOo

When he first got to the Bureau, he was put to work with an agent who, he later learned, had been chasing the ghost of a killer on a case almost 20 years old.

The man was a good agent, solid if not too slow-footed for the man Booth was then. He'd told him the story one night in his office between too many cups of coffee and too many what ifs.

Booth had listened, vowed not to get old on the job, and tried to put it out of his mind. But each case in which he hit a dead-end, first the one in which he knew that Judge Ames was the killer, and the other, the Cleo Eller case, in each of those cases he wondered if he had his ghost case.

And in each of those cases, the squints, led by the squintiest squint of all of them, had bailed him out.

Booth reminded himself of that time as he pulled the van into the parkway and allowed the vehicle to roll to a stop before easing on the brake and shutting off the engine.

"Angela and Hodgins are here already," Brennan said, her right hand drawing his attention to the couple already settled into the picnic table closest to the water.

He leaned in and squinted through her window, giving her a poke with his finger. "Better get a move on, Granny. At your age, it takes you a long time to get out of the car."

She gave him a playful slap, her blue eyes unmistakable. They hadn't aged at all, they couldn't really, but the rest of her—well, she still looked damn fine with the 25 years added onto her face. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled and he felt still drawn in by the expression there.

"It's just a few pounds, Booth," she said as she twisted in the seat.

They were both carrying a few more pounds, a few more years, but the couple down the way hadn't aged at all. Hodgins sketched a wave in their direction.

"I really think I'll age a bit better than this," Booth said as he checked his face in the rearview mirror. "I don't much like the beard."

It seemed like a creature had curled up on his face, grey and white with hints of the dark brown he once knew well.

"You're the reason we're dressed like this," she said, adjusting the hem of the dress she and Angela had picked out. "We can't have Tracy Lord recognize you, but you're the only one who might recognize her."

He grimaced at himself in the mirror and arched his eyebrows. When they had first fitted him for them—fuzzy, long-haired caterpillars above his eyes—he had almost balked at the whole idea. But he had required a new nose, too, and peering at himself in the various mirrors he would happen by, he couldn't really see that much of himself as a 60-year-old. But Bones, well, that was a different story.

"You still look hot, babe," he said, squeezing her thigh just above the knee.

She gave him a look. "I look appropriately aged for someone who is a quarter century older than my current, actual age." 

He grinned at her, the furry creature on his face moving around that semblance of a grin, and he opened the door.

Booth had no problem looking his age as he gingerly climbed out of the vehicle, his back tied up in knots by the van's seat and the length of the ride down.

Brennan moved a bit more freely, despite the padding and had already joined him on his side of the van. Her hand went immediately to his back. "I can massage that tonight," she offered.

He nodded, slowly tried to ease away one of the knots before taking her hand and making their way toward the Hodgins' group.

They'd done their homework. Angela had traced a block of those gift cards on one of those auction sites and another block on a site for reselling gift cards at a discount and they had used that information as well as other bits and pieces gleaned from the various crime sites to draw a line right to Tracy Lord.

Mark Fletcher had done her a favor by wiping clean her slate at the bureau, but he had missed some records, safely stowed away in boxes in dusty basements.

He'd gotten the bullpen to pitch in and within days, they'd discovered that Tracy Lord did still exist.

Not far from a post office where, on a small hill, wild plants grew that could be turned into a paralytic agent that could be used to render a man or a woman helpless while someone simply stood behind them and executed them.

And she went on living her life at the cost of the life of another. "Fletcher got what he deserved," he said. Booth felt the stain of a dishonest cop on the Bureau.

"But Alicia McAllister didn't," Brennan said. "All she wanted was a modeling job. And Tracy Lord is responsible for her death."

Something in the way Brennan she said those words stirred him and he reached for her hand.

"Twenty-five years from now, this is where I want to be," Booth said as he nodded to a younger man on the path who had stooped down to adjust the collar on his dog.

"Undercover at a park determining if Aimee Teasdale is our Tracy Lord?"

He laughed. "No, Bones." He held her hand up between them. "Like this. With you. Under cover or under the covers. It really doesn't matter."

He half-expected her to resist, the eternal scientist discounting the possibility that love might last, but she did not pull away, but looked at him. Beyond the makeup and the wrinkles, he could see her thinking.

"I would like to believe in that, too, Booth."

He wanted to grab her and kiss her right then, but that would have signaled the agents he had planted in the park to swoop in and he hadn't spotted their prey yet. He just squeezed her hand.

They took up their station at the picnic table with Hodgins and Angela and the newest little squint and he wondered how he thought he could have thought about giving up. He glanced at Brennan.

With grey hair and glasses perched on her nose, she still looked beautiful. She was playing her part, grandmother to the littlest Hodgins, her fingers dancing in the air above the child's head.

He knew would take 25 minutes or 25 years with a woman like her.

Then, he saw her.

Lean legs, that chiseled abdomen, Tracy Lord owned the pathway as she jogged just as she had seemed to own the bars he'd been in with her. Her hair was bouncing behind her in a dark ponytail, and from what he could see, the woman was without her distinctive tattoos, but it was her. Despite her altered appearance, he _knew_ it was her.

He glanced around the park at the agents they'd scattered—the dog walker, the man scowling over his crossword puzzle on the park bench, the man and woman photographing the flowerbeds. They were all waiting for his signal.

"Bones," he said as he watched Lord's lazy progress around the track circling the park, "did you know that happiness is contagious?"

And with that, he kissed her.

**Author's Note: Thank you for hanging on and reading this opus. I appreciate the feedback and the encouragement. I do know that I won't ever think, "Oh, a 40-song challenge in 40 days? I can do that."**

**A year later, **_**maybe**_**. But the way I write? Turtles are faster. **


End file.
